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TALES 

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TALES  OF  MEAN  STREETS 

LIZERUNT 

SQUIRE   NAPPER 

WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS 

THREE   ROUNDS 


©tfjers 


BY 

ARTHUR    MORRISON 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


ress : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


GIFT 


TO 


WILLIAM   ERNEST  HENLEY 


810 


NOTE.  —  The  greater  number  of  these  stories  and 
studies  were  first  printed  in  The  National  Observer ; 
the  introduction,  in  a  slightly  different  form,  in 
Macmillan's  Magazine ;  "  That  Brute  Simmons'"  and 
"A  Conversion"  have  been  published  in  The  Pall 
Mall  Budget ;  and  lf  The  Red  Cow  Group  "  is  new. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION      ....        9 


INTRODUCTION 15 

LIZERUNT:  — 

I.  LIZER'S  WOOING 29 

II.  LIZER'S  FIRST 38 

III.  A  CHANGE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES 46 

WITHOUT  VISIBLE  MEANS 57 

To  Bow  BRIDGE 73 

THAT  BRUTE  SIMMONS      .    •    .    .  • 83 

BEHIND  THE  SHADE       97 

THREE  ROUNDS 109 

IN  BUSINESS       127 

THE  RED  Cow  GROUP 141 

ON  THE  STAIRS 161 

SQUIRE  NAPPER 171 

"A  POOR  STICK" 197 

A  CONVERSION 207 

"ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE"    ,  ,221 


INTRODUCTION 

TO   THE   AMERICAN   EDITION. 


IT  was  considered  an  intrepid  thing  for  Walter 
Besant  to  do  when,  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
ago,  he  invaded  the  great  East  End  of  London 
and  drew  upon  its  unknown  wealth  of  varied 
material  to  people  that  most  charming  novel, 
"  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men."  Until  then 
the  West  End  knew  little  of  its  contiguous  neigh- 
bor in  the  East.  Dickens's  kaleidoscopic  views 
of  low  life  in  the  South  of  London  were  mani- 
festly caricatures  of  the  slum  specimens  of  hu- 
man nature  which  he  purposely  sought  and  often 
distorted  to  suit  his  bizarre  humor.  Mr.  Besant 
may  be  fairly  considered  as  the  pioneer  of  those 
who  have  since  descended  to  the  great  unchar- 
tered  region  of  East  London,  about  which,  so  far 
as  our  knowledge  of  the  existing  conditions  of 
human  life  in  that  community  are  concerned,  we 
remained  until,  as  it  were  yesterday,  almost  as 


10  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 

ignorant  as  of  the  undiscovered  territories  in  Cen- 
tral Africa.  Contemporaneous  with  Mr.  Besant's 
"  discovery "  of  East  London  began  the  east- 
ward march  of  the  Salvation  Army,  which  has 
since  honeycombed  this  quarter  of  the  metropo- 
lis with  its  militant  camps.  Gradually  the  barri- 
ers were  thrown  down,  and  the  East  has  become 
accessible  to  literature  and  to  civilization  as  it 
never  had  been  to  the  various  Charity  and 
Church  missionary  organizations. 

It  was  as  the  secretary  of  an  old  Charity 
Trust  that  Mr.  Arthur  Morrison  first  made  his 
acquaintance  with  East  London,  and  by  dint  of 
several  years'  residence  and  attentive  study  ac- 
quired his  knowledge  of  the  East  End  and  its 
myriad  denizens.  Right  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  square  bounded  by  the  Thames,  the  Lea, 
the  City,  Kingsland,  and  the  Hackney  open 
spaces  lie  the  dreary  "  Mean  Streets  "  which 
Mr.  Morrison  has  described  with  uncommon 
power  and  vigor,  and  among  which  the  opera- 
tions of  his  secretaryship  engaged  him  la- 
boriously for  years.  The  possibility  of  pre- 
senting his  observations  of  East  London  in 
narrative  form  began  to  grow  upon  him  while 
casting  around  for  literary  pabulum  to  convert 
into  magazine  articles,  and  in  October,  1891, 


AMERICAN   EDITION.  II 

appeared  his  first  sketch,  entitled  "  A  Street," 
in  "  Macmillan's  Magazine."  This,  in  a  re- 
modelled form,  now  serves  as  an  introductory 
chapter  to  the  present  collection.  The  article 
in  "  Macmillan's  "  attracted  a  good  deal  of  at- 
tention, and  won  for  its  author  the  good  fellow- 
ship of  Mr.  W.  E.  Henley,  who  encouraged  him 
in  his  idea  of  writing  a  series  of  short  stories 
and  studies  which  should  describe  East  End  life 
with  austerity,  restraint,  and  frankness.  A  large 
number  of  the  "  Tales  "  appeared  in  the  "  Na- 
tional Observer "  and  several  followed  in  the 
"Pall  Mall  Budget."  The  dedication  to  Mr. 
Henley  of  "  Tales  of  Mean  Streets  "  is  a  grate- 
ful acknowledgment  by  the  author  of  the  kindly 
and  frank  counsel  of  his  friendly  critic;  whose 
criticism,  it  may  be  added,  has  been  mainly 
directed  towards  the  author's  craftsmanship  — 
his  conceptions  of  the  life  he  was  portraying 
the  critic  was  wise  enough  to  let  alone.  Mr. 
Morrison  has  also  been  indebted  on  the  side 
of  art  in  fiction  to  Mr.  Walter  Besant,  whom 
he  met  in  the  East  End. 

Mr.  Morrison  has  been  fortunate .  in  his  lit- 
erary experience.  He  is  another  witness  to  the 
fact  that  merit  makes  its  way  from  the  outside, 
without  necessarily  receiving  aid  or  having  influ- 


12  INTRODUCTION  TO   THE 

ence  brought  to  bear  on  editors  or  publishers. 
It  is  curious  to  note  that  a  manuscript  of  his 
which  happened  to  be  rejected  once  was  ac- 
cepted on  the  day  following,  and  now  has  a  place 
in  this  book.  Some  cycling  verses  contributed 
as  a  lad  to  a  cycling  magazine  began  his  literary 
career,  and  for  some  years  he  continued  to  write 
on  what  was  then  a  novel  sport.  He  drifted 
into  broader  channels  and  became  a  frequent 
contributor  to  popular  papers  and  magazines. 
During  this  period  he  was  working  on  the 
Charity  Commission,  and  wrote  only  by  way 
of  relaxation.  About  five  years  ago  he  re- 
signed his  office  on  the  Trust,  and,  occupying 
chambers  near  the  Strand,  joined  the  editorial 
staff  of  an  old-established  evening  paper,  where 
for  some  months  he  continued  to  write  leader- 
ettes and  miscellaneous  articles  and  notes  until, 
becoming  convinced  that  he  could  not  do  jus- 
tice to  such  ability  for  better  work  which  he 
might  possess  amidst  the  grinding  routine  of 
newspaper  scribbling,  he  gave  up  his  post  and 
applied  himself  to  more  serious  writing,  contrib- 
uting to  the  "  Strand,"  and  other  magazines  and 
reviews.  About  this  time  he  began  the  series 
which  is  now  gathered  under  the  common  title 
"  Tales  of  Mean  Streets."  On  its  recent  publi- 


AMERICAN   EDITION.  13 

cation  in  England  it  was  received  with  instant 
recognition  as  a  book  of  extraordinary  merit, 
and  it  has  met  with  signal  success.  Some  idea 
of  the  strong  impression  which  it  has  made  in 
England  may  be  gathered  from  Mr.  Arthur 
Waugh's  warm  tribute  to  the  author's  distinc- 
tion in  a  recent  letter  to  the  "  Critic."  "  He 
deals  exclusively,"  writes  Mr.  Waugh,  "  with  life 
in  the  East  End  of  London,  and  he  does  so 
with  a  fearlessness  and  originality  which  are  of 
more  value  than  many  sermons.  I  do  not  know 
whether  his  book  is  published  in  America;  but 
if  so,  I  strongly  advise  every  reader  of  this  letter 
to  secure  it.  Those  who  do  so  will  learn  from 
its  pages  more  of  the  degradation  and  misery  of 
a  certain  side  of  London  life  than  they  could  in 
many  weeks  of  philanthropic  '  slumming.'  Mr. 
Morrison's  will  be  a  name  to  conjure  with  in 
another  season." 

Mr.  Arthur  Morrison  is  but  thirty-one,  and  has 
just  stepped  on  to  the  threshold  of  literary  fame 
as  a  writer  of  decided  promise  and  strength.  He 
has  only  broken  ground  as  yet  in  the  field  which 
has  brought  him  his  spurs,  and  is  at  present  con- 
templating a  longer  story  of  East  End  life.  The 
number  of  those  who  have  attempted  to  write 
familiarly  of  the  seamy  side  of  our  great  cities 


14      INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 

from  close  observation  and  laborious  study  of 
its  life  in  a  first-hand  fashion  is  so  small  that 
it  is  easy  to  believe  that  the  author  of  "  Tales 
of  Mean  Streets,"  possessing  as  he  does  the 
prime  qualities  of  a  novelist,  has  a  future  before 
him  in  an  unprecedented  form  of  literature. 

JAMES    MACARTHUR. 
NEW  YORK,  March  2,  1895. 


INTRODUCTION. 


A    STREET. 

THIS  street  is  in  the  East  End.  There  is 
no  need  to  say  in  the  East  End  of  what. 
The  East  End  is  a  vast  city,  as  famous  in  its 
way  as  any  the  hand  of  man  has  made.  But 
who  knows  the  East  End?  It  is  down  through 
Cornhill  and  out  beyond  Leadenhall  Street 
and  Aldgate  Pump,  one  will  say:  a  shocking 
place,  where  he  once  went  with  a  curate;  an 
evil  plexus  of  slums  that  hide  human  creeping 
things,  where  filthy  men  and  women  live  on 
penn'orths  of  gin,  where  collars  and  clean  shirts 
are  decencies  unknown,  where  every  citizen 
wears  a  black  eye,  and  none  ever  combs  his 
hair.  The  East  End  is  a  place,  says  another, 
which  is  given  over  to  the  Unemployed.  And 
the  Unemployed  is  a  race  whose  token  is  a  clay 
pipe,  and  whose  enemy  is  soap:  now  and  again 
it  migrates  bodily  to  Hyde  Park  with  banners, 
and  furnishes  adjacent  police  courts  with  dis- 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

orderly  drunks.  Still  another  knows  the  East 
End  onty  "as  the  *<.jdlac>*:whence  begging  letters 
come ;,  tjiere  are.  coal  and  blanket  funds  there, 
all  pereiirricJ'ly  'insolvent  and  everybody  always 
wants  a  day  in  the  country.  Many  and  misty 
are  people's  notions  of  the  East  End;  and  each 
is  commonly  but  the  distorted  shadow  of  a 
minor  feature.  Foul  slums  there  are  in  the 
East  End,  of  course,  as  there  are  in  the  West ; 
want  and  misery  there  are,  as  wherever  a  host 
is  gathered  together  to  fight  for  food.  But  they 
are  not  often  spectacular  in  kind. 

Of  this  street  there  are  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  —  on  the  same  pattern  all.  It 
is  not  pretty  to  look  at.  A  dingy  little  brick 
house  twenty  feet  high,  with  three  square  holes 
to  carry  the  windows,  and  an  oblong  hole  to 
carry  the  door,  is  not  a  pleasing  object;  and 
each  side  of  this  street  is  formed  by  two  or 
three  score  of  such  houses  in  a  row,  with  one 
front  wall  in  common.  And  the  effect  is  as 
of  stables. 

Round  the  corner  there  are  a  baker's,  a 
chandler's,  and  a  beer-shop.  They  are  not 
included  in  the  view  from  any  of  the  rectangu- 
lar holes;  but  they  are  well  known  to  every 
denizen,  and  the  chandler  goes  to  church  on 
Sunday  and  pays  for  his  seat.  At  the  opposite 
end,  turnings  lead  to  streets  less  rigidly  re- 


INTRODUCTION.  I/ 

spectable:  some  where  "Mangling  done  here" 
stares  from  windows,  and  where  doors  are  left 
carelessly  open;  others  where  squalid  women 
sit  on  doorsteps,  and  girls  go  to  factories  in 
white  aprons.  Many  such  turnings,  of  as  many 
grades  of  decency,  are  set  between  this  and  the 
nearest  slum. 

They  are  not  a  very  noisy  or  obtrusive  lot  in 
this  street.  They  do  not  go  to  Hyde  Park  with 
banners,  and  they  seldom  fight.  It  is  just  pos- 
sible that  one  or  two  among  them,  at  some  point 
in  a  life  of  ups  and  downs,  may  have  been  in- 
debted to  a  coal  and  blanket  fund ;  but  whoso- 
ever these  may  be,  they  would  rather  die  than 
publish  the  disgrace,  and  it  is  probable  that 
they  very  nearly  did  so  ere  submitting  to  it. 

Some  who  inhabit  this  street  are  in  the  docks, 
some  in  the  gasworks,  some  in  one  or  other  of 
the  few  shipbuilding  yards  that  yet  survive  on 
the  Thames.  Two  families  in  a  house  is  the 
general  rule,  for  there  are  six  rooms  behind 
each  set  of  holes:  this,  unless  "young  men 
lodgers"  are  taken  in,  or  there  are  grown  sons 
paying  for  bed  and  board.  As  for  the  grown 
daughters,  they  marry  as  soon  as  may  be. 
Domestic  service  is  a  social  descent,  and  little 
under  millinery  and  dressmaking  is  compatible 
with  self-respect.  The  general  servant  may  be 
caught  young  among  the  turnings  at  the  end 


1 8  INTRODUCTION. 

where  mangling  is  done;  and  the  factory  girls 
live  still  further  off,  in  places  skirting  slums. 

Every  morning  at  half-past  five  there  is  a 
curious  demonstration.  The  street  resounds 
with  thunderous  knockings,  repeated  upon  door 
after  door,  and  acknowledged  ever  by  a  muffled 
shout  from  within.  These  signals  are  the  work 
of  the  night-watchman  or  the  early  policeman, 
or  both,  and  they  summon  the  sleepers  to  go  forth 
to  the  docks,  the  gasworks,  and  the  ship-yards. 
To  be  awakened  in  this  wise  costs  fourpence  a 
week,  and  for  this  fourpence  a  fierce  rivalry 
rages  between  night-watchmen  and  policemen. 
The  night-watchman  —  a  sort  of  by-blow  of  the 
ancient  "Charley,"  and  himself  a  fast  vanishing 
quantity  —  is  the  real  professional  performer; 
but  he  goes  to  the  wall,  because  a  large  con- 
nection must  be  worked  if  the  pursuit  is  to  pay 
at  fourpence  a  knocker.  Now,  it  is  not  easy 
to  bang  at  two  knockers  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  apart,  and  a  hundred  others  lying  between, 
all  punctually  at  half-past  five.  Wherefore  the 
policeman,  to  whom  the  fourpence  is  but  a  per- 
quisite, and  who  is  content  with  a  smaller 
round,  is  rapidly  supplanting  the  night-watch- 
man, whose  cry  of  "  Past  nine  o'clock,"  as  he 
collects  orders  in  the  evening,  is  now  seldom 
heard. 

The  knocking  and  the  shouting  pass,  and  there 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

comes  the  noise  of  opening  and  shutting  of 
doors,  and  a  clattering  away  to  the  docks,  the 
gasworks  and  the  ship-yards.  Later  more  door- 
shutting  is  heard,  and  then  the  trotting  of  sor- 
row-laden little  feet  along  the  grim  street  to  the 
grim  Board  School  three  grim  streets  off.  Then 
silence,  save  for  a  subdued  sound  of  scrubbing 
here  and  there,  and  the  puny  squall  of  croupy 
infants.  After  this,  a  new  trotting  of  little 
feet  to  docks,  gasworks,  and  ship-yards  with 
father's  dinner  in  a  basin  and  a  red  handker- 
chief, and  so  to  the  Board  School  again.  More 
muffled  scrubbing  and  more  squalling,  and  per- 
haps a  feeble  attempt  or  two  at  decorating  the 
blankness  of  a  square  hole  here  and  there  by 
pouring  water  into  a  grimy  flower-pot  full  of 
dirt.  Then  comes  the  trot  of  little  feet  toward 
the  oblong  holes,  heralding  the  slower  tread  of 
sooty  artisans;  a  smell  of  bloater  up  and  down; 
nightfall;  the  fighting  of  boys  in  the  street, 
perhaps  of  men  at  the  corner  near  the  beer- 
shop;  sleep.  And  this  is  the  record  of  a  day 
in  this  street;  and  every  day  is  hopelessly  the 
same. 

Every  day,  that  is,  but  Sunday.  On  Sunday 
morning  a  smell  of  cooking  floats  round  the  cor- 
ner from  the  half-shut  baker's,  and  the  little 
feet  trot  down  the  street  under  steaming  bur- 
dens of  beef,  potatoes,  and  batter  pudding  —  the 


2O  INTRODUCTION. 

lucky  little  feet  these,  with  Sunday  boots  on 
them,  when  father  is  in  good  work  and  has 
brought  home  all  his  money;  not  the  poor  little 
feet  in  worn  shoes,  carrying  little  bodies  in  the 
threadbare  clothes  of  all  the  week,  when  father 
is  out  of  work,  or  ill,  or  drunk,  and  the  Sunday 
cooking  may  very  easily  be  done  at  home,  —  if 
any  there  be  to  do. 

On  Sunday  morning  one  or  two  heads  of  fam- 
ilies appear  in  wonderful  black  suits,  with  un- 
numbered creases  and  wrinklings  at  the  seams. 
At  their  sides  and  about  their  heels  trot  the 
unresting  little  feet,  and  from  under  painful 
little  velvet  caps  and  straw  hats  stare  solemn 
little  faces  towelled  to  a  polish.  Thus  disposed 
and  arrayed,  they  fare  gravely  through  the  grim 
little  streets  to  a  grim  Little  Bethel  where  are 
gathered  together  others  in  like  garb  and  attend- 
ance ;  and  for  two  hours  they  endure  the  frantic 
menace  of  hell-fire. 

Most  of  the  men,  however,  lie  in  shirt  and 
trousers  on  their  beds  and  read  the  Sunday 
paper;  while  some  are  driven  forth  —  for  they 
hinder  the  housework  —  to  loaf,  and  await  the 
opening  of  the  beer-shop  round  the  corner. 
Thus  goes  Sunday  in  this  street,  and  every 
Sunday  is  the  same  as  every  other  Sunday,  so 
that  one  monotony  is  broken  with  another. 
For  the  women,  however,  Sunday  is  much  as 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

other  days,  except  that  there  is  rather  more 
work  for  them.  The  break  in  their  round  of 
the  week  is  washing  day. 

No  event  in  the  outer  world  makes  any  im- 
pression in  this  street.  Nations  may  rise,  or 
may  totter  in  ruin;  but  here  the  colorless  day 
will  work  through  its  twenty-four  hours  just  as 
it  did  yesterday,  and  just  as  it  will  to-morrow. 
Without  there  may  be  party  strife,  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars,  public  rejoicings;  but  the  trot- 
ting of  the  little  feet  will  be  neither  quickened 
nor  stayed.  Those  quaint  little  women,  the 
girl-children  of  this  street,  who  use  a  motherly 
management  toward  all  girl-things  younger  than 
themselves,  and  toward  all  boys  as  old  or  older, 
with  "  Bless  the  child  !  "  or  "  Drat  the  children  !  " 
—  those  quaint  little  women  will  still  go  mar- 
keting with  big  baskets,  and  will  regard  the 
price  of  bacon  as  chief  among  human  considera- 
tions. Nothing  disturbs  this  street  —  nothing 
but  a  strike. 

Nobody  laughs  here  —  life  is  too  serious  a 
thing;  nobody  sings.  There  was  once  a  woman 
who  sang  —  a  young  wife  from  the  country. 
But  she  bore  children,  and  her  voice  cracked. 
Then  her  man  died,  and  she  sang  no  more. 
They  took  away  her  home,  and  with  her  children 
about  her  skirts  she  left  this  street  forever. 
The  other  women  did  not  think  much  of  her. 
She  was  "helpless." 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

One  of  the  square  holes  in  this  street  —  one 
of  the  single,  ground-floor  holes — is  found,  on 
individual  examination,  to  differ  from  the  others. 
There  has  been  an  attempt  to  make  it  into  a 
shop-window.  Half  a  dozen  candles,  a  few 
sickly  sugar-sticks,  certain  shrivelled  bloaters, 
some  bootlaces,  and  a  bundle  or  two  of  firewood 
compose  a  stock  which  at  night  is  sometimes 
lighted  by  a  little  paraffine  lamp  in  a  tin  sconce, 
and  sometimes  by  a  candle.  A  widow  lives 
here  —  a  gaunt,  bony  widow,  with  sunken,  red 
eyes.  She  has  other  sources  of  income  than  the 
candles  and  the  bootlaces :  she  washes  and  chars 
all  day,  and  she  sews  cheap  shirts  at  night. 
Two  "young  men  lodgers,"  moreover,  sleep  up- 
stairs, and  the  children  sleep  in  the  back  room; 
she  herself  is  supposed  not  to  sleep  at  all.  The 
policeman  does  not  knock  here  in  the  morning 
—  the  widow  wakes  the  lodgers  herself;  and 
nobody  in  the  street  behind  ever  looks  out  of 
window  before  going  to  bed,  no  matter  how 
late,  without  seeing  a  light  in  the  widow's  room 
where  she  plies  her  needle.  She  is  a  quiet 
woman,  who  speaks  little  with  her  neighbors, 
having  other  things  to  do :  a  woman  of  pro- 
nounced character,  to  whom  it  would  be  unad- 
visable —  even  dangerous  —  to  offer  coals  or  blan- 
kets. Hers  was  the  strongest  contempt  for  the 
helpless  woman  who  sang :  a  contempt  whose 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

added  bitterness  might  be  traced  to  its  source. 
For  when  the  singing  woman  was  marketing, 
from  which  door  of  the  pawnshop  had  she  twice 
met  the  widow  coming  forth? 

This  is  not  a  dirty  street,  taken  as  a  whole. 
The  widow's  house  is  one  of  the  cleanest,  and 
the  widow's  children  match  the  house.  The 
one  house  cleaner  than  the  widow's  is  ruled  by  a 
despotic  Scotchwoman,  who  drives  every  hawker 
off  her  whitened  step,  and  rubs  her  door  handle 
if  a  hand  have  rested  on  it.  The  Scotchwoman 
has  made  several  attempts  to  accommodate 
"young  men  lodgers,"  but  they  have  ended  in 
shrill  rows. 

There  is  no  house  without  children  in  this 
street,  and  the  number  of  them  grows  ever  and 
ever  greater.  Nine-tenths  of  the  doctor's  visits 
are  on  this  account  alone,  and  his  appearances 
are  the  chief  matter  of  such  conversation  as 
the  women  make  across  the  fences.  One  after 
another  the  little  strangers  come,  to  live  through 
lives  as  flat  and  colorless  as  the  day's  life  in 
this  street.  Existence  dawns,  and  the  doctor- 
watchman's  door  knock  resounds  along  the  row 
of  rectangular  holes.  Then  a  muffled  cry  an- 
nounces that  a  small  new  being  has  come  to 
trudge  and  sweat  its  way  in  the  appointed 
groove.  Later,  the  trotting  of  little  feet  and 
the  school;  the  midday  play  hour,  when  love 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

peeps  even  into  this  street;  after  that  more  trot- 
ting of  little  feet  —  strange  little  feet,  new  little 
feet  —  and  the  scrubbing,  and  the  squalling,  and 
the  barren  flower-pot;  the  end  of  the  sooty  day's 
work;  the  last  home-coming;  nightfall;  sleep. 

When  love's  light  falls  into  some  corner  of 
the  street,  it  falls  at  an  early  hour  of  this  mean 
life,  and  is  itself  but  a  dusty  ray.  It  falls  early, 
because  it  is  the  sole  bright  thing  which  the 
street  sees,  and  is  watched  for  and  counted  on. 
Lads  and  lasses,  awkwardly  arm  in  arm,  go 
pacing  up  and  down  this  street,  before  the  natural 
interest  in  marbles  and  doll's  houses  would  have 
left  them  in  a  brighter  place.  They  are  "keep- 
ing company  "  ;  the  manner  of  which  proceeding 
is  indigenous  —  is  a  custom  native  to  the  place. 
The  young  people  first  "walk  out"  in  pairs. 
There  is  no  exchange  of  promises,  no  troth- 
plight,  no  engagement,  no  love-talk.  They 
patrol  the  street  side  by  side,  usually  in  silence, 
sometimes  with  fatuous  chatter.  There  are  no 
dances,  no  tennis,  no  water-parties,  no  picnics 
to  bring  them  together:  so  they  must  walk  out, 
or  be  unacquainted.  If  two  of  them  grow  dis- 
satisfied with  each  other's  company,  nothing  is 
easier  than  to  separate  and  walk  out  with  some- 
body else.  When  by  these  means  each  has 
found  a  fit  mate  (or  thinks  so),  a  ring  is  bought, 
and  the  odd  association  becomes  a  regular  en- 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

gagement ;  but  this  is  not  until  the  walking  out 
has  endured  for  many  months.  The  two  stages 
of  courtship  are  spoken  of  indiscriminately  as 
"keeping  company, "but  a  very  careful  distinc- 
tion is  drawn  between  them  by  the  parties  con- 
cerned. Nevertheless,  in  the  walking  out  period 
it  would  be  almost  as  great  a  breach  of  faith  for 
either  to  walk  out  with  more  than  one,  as  it 
would  be  if  the  full  engagement  had  been  made. 
And  love-making  in  this  street  is  a  dreary  thing, 
when  one  thinks  of  love-making  in  other  places. 
It  begins  —  and  it  ends  —  too  soon. 

Nobody  from  this  street  goes  to  the  theatre. 
That  would  mean  a  long  journey,  and  it  would 
cost  money  which  might  buy  bread  and  beer  and 
boots.  For  those,  too,  who  wear  black  Sunday 
suits  it  would  be  sinful.  Nobody  reads  poetry 
or  romance.  The  very  words  are  foreign.  A 
Sunday  paper  in  some  few  houses  provides  such 
reading  as  this  street  is  disposed  to  achieve. 
Now  and  again  a  penny  novel  has  been  found 
among  the  private  treasures  of  a  growing  daugh- 
ter, and  has  been  wrathfully  confiscated.  For 
the  air  of  this  street  is  unfavorable  to  the  ideal. 

Yet  there  are  aspirations.  There  has  lately 
come  into  the  street  a  young  man  lodger  who 
belongs  to  a  Mutual  Improvement  Society. 
Membership  in  this  society  is  regarded  as  a 
sort  of  learned  degree,  and  at  its  meetings 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

debates  are  held  and  papers  smugly  read  by 
lamentably  self-satisfied  young  men  lodgers, 
whose  only  preparation  for  debating  and  writ- 
ing is  a  fathomless  ignorance.  For  ignorance 
is  the  inevitable  portion  of  dwellers  here:  see- 
ing nothing,  reading  nothing,  and  considering 
nothing. 

Where  in  the  East  End  lies  this  street? 
Everywhere.  The  hundred  and  fifty  yards  is 
only  a  link  in  a  long  and  a  mightily  tangled 
chain  —  is  only  a  turn  in  a  tortuous  maze.  This 
street  of  the  square  holes  is  hundreds  of  miles 
long.  That  it  is  planned  in  short  lengths  is 
true,  but  there  is  no  other  way  in  the  world 
that  can  more  properly  be  called  a  single  street, 
because  of  its  dismal  lack  of  accent,  its  sordid 
uniformity,  its  utter  remoteness  from  delight. 


L  I  Z  E  R  U  N  T. 


L I  Z  E  R  U  N  T. 


I. 

LIZER'S   WOOING. 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  register  was  written 
the  name  Elizabeth  Hunt;  but  seventeen 
years  after  the  entry  the  spoken  name  was 
Lizerunt.  Lizerunt  worked  at  a  pickle  factory, 
and  appeared  abroad  in  an  elaborate  and  shabby 
costume,  usually  supplemented  by  a  white  apron. 
Withal  she  was  something  of  a  beauty.  That  is 
to  say,  her  cheeks  were  very  red,  her  teeth  were 
very  large  and  white,  her  nose  was  small  and 
snub,  and  her  fringe  was  long  and  shiny;  while 
her  face,  new-washed,  was  susceptible  of  a  high 
polish.  Many  such  girls  are  married  at  sixteen, 
but  Lizerunt  was  belated,  and  had  never  a  bloke 
at  all. 

Billy  Chope  was  a  year  older  than  Lizerunt. 
He  wore  a  billycock  with  a  thin  brim  and  a 
permanent  dent  in  the  crown;  he  had  a  bobtail 
coat,  with  the  collar  turned  up  at  one  side  and 
down  at  the  other,  as  an  expression  of  indepen- 


30  LIZERUNT. 

dence;  between  his  meals  he  carried  his  hands 
in  his  breeches  pockets;  and  he  lived  with  his 
mother,  who  mangled.  His  conversation  with 
Lizerunt  consisted  long  of  perfunctory  nods; 
but  great  things  happened  this  especial  Thurs- 
day evening,  as  Lizerunt,  making  for  home, 
followed  the  fading  red  beyond  the  furthermost 
end  of  Commercial  Road.  For  Billy  Chope, 
slouching  in  the  opposite  direction,  lurched 
across  the  pavement  as  they  met,  and,  taking 
the  nearer  hand  from  his  pocket,  caught  and 
twisted  her  arm,  bumping  her  against  the  wall. 

"Garn,"  said  Lizerunt,  greatly  pleased:  "le' 
go !  "  For  she  knew  that  this  was  love. 

"  Where  yer  auf  to,  Lizer  ?  " 

"'Ome,  o'  course,  cheeky.  Le'  go;"  and  she 
snatched  —  in  vain  —  at  Billy's  hat. 

Billy  let  go,  and  capered  in  front  of  her.  She 
feigned  to  dodge  by  him,  careful  not  to  be  too 
quick,  because  affairs  were  developing. 

"I  say,  Lizer,"  said  Billy,  stopping  his  dance 
and  becoming  business-like,  "goin'  anywhere 
Monday?  " 

"Not  along  o'  you,  cheeky;  you  go  'long  o' 
Beller  Dawson,  like  wot  you  did  Easter." 

"Blow  Beller  Dawson;  she  ain't  no  good. 
I'm  goin'  on  the  Flats.  Come?" 

Lizerunt,  delighted  but  derisive,  ended  with 
a  promise  to  "see."  The  bloke  had  come  at 


LIZER'S  WOOING.  31 

last,  and  she  walked  home  with  the  feeling  of 
having  taken  her  degree.  She  had  half  assured 
herself  of  it  two  days  before,  when  Sam  Cardew 
threw  an  orange  peel  at  her,  but  went  away  after 
a  little  prancing  on  the  pavement.  Sam  was  a 
smarter  fellow  than  Billy,  and  earned  his  own 
living;  probably  his  attentions  were  serious; 
but  one  must  prefer  the  bird  in  hand.  As  for 
Billy  Chope,  he  went  his  way,  resolved  himself 
to  take  home  what  mangling  he  should  find  his 
mother  had  finished,  and  stick  to  the  money; 
also,  to  get  all  he  could  from  her  by  blandish- 
ing and  bullying,  that  the  jaunt  to  Wanstead 
Flats  might  be  adequately  done. 

There  is  no  other  fair  like  Whit  Monday's 
on  Wanstead  Flats.  Here  is  a  square  mile  and 
more  of  open  land  where  you  may  howl  at  large; 
here  is  no  danger  of  losing  yourself,  as  in  Ep- 
ping  Forest ;  the  public  houses  are  always  with 
you;  shows,  shies,  swings,  merry-go-rounds,  fried 
fish  stalls,  donkeys,  are  packed  closer  than  on 
Hampstead  Heath;  the  ladies'  tormentors  are 
larger,  and  their  contents  smell  worse,  than  at 
any  other  fair.  Also,  you  may  be  drunk  and 
disorderly  without  being  locked  up,  —  for  the 
stations  won't  hold  everybody,  —  and  when  all 
else  has  palled,  you  may  set  fire  to  the  turf. 
Hereinto  Billy  and  Lizerunt  projected  them- 


32  LIZERUNT. 

selves  from  the  doors  of  the  Holly  Tree  on 
Whit  Monday  morning.  But  through  hours  on 
hours  of  fried  fish  and  half -pints  both  were  con- 
scious of  a  deficiency.  For  the  hat  of  Lizerunt 
was  brown  and  old;  plush  it  was  not,  and  its 
feather  was  a  mere  foot  long,  and  of  a  very  rusty 
black.  Now,  it  is  not  decent  for  a  factory  girl 
from  Limehouse  to  go  bank-holidaying  under 
any  but  a  hat  of  plush,  very  high  in  the  crown, 
of  a  wild  blue  or  a  wilder  green,  and  carrying 
withal  an  ostrich  feather,  pink  or  scarlet  or 
what  not;  a  feather  that  springs  from  the  fore 
part,  climbs  the  crown,  and  drops  as  far  down 
the  shoulders  as  may  be.  Lizerunt  knew  this, 
and,  had  she  had  no  bloke,  would  have  stayed  at 
home.  But  a  chance  is  a  chance.  As  it  was, 
only  another  such  hapless  girl  could  measure 
her  bitter  envy  of  the  feathers  about  her,  or 
would  so  joyfully  have  given  an  ear  for  the 
proper  splendor.  Billy,  too,  had  a  vague  im- 
pression, muddled  by  but  not  drowned  in  half- 
pints,  that  some  degree  of  plush  was  condign  to 
the  occasion  and  to  his  own  expenditure.  Still, 
there  was  no  quarrel ;  and  the  pair  walked  and 
ran  with  arms  about  each  other's  necks:  and 
Lizerunt  thumped  her  bloke  on  the  back  at 
proper  intervals;  so  that  the  affair  went  regu- 
larly on  the  whole :  although,  in  view  of  Lize- 
runt's  shortcomings,  Billy  did  not  insist  on  the 


LIZER'S   WOOING.  33 

customary  exchange  of  hats.  Everything,  I  say, 
went  well  and  well  enough  until  Billy  bought 
a  ladies'  tormentor  and  began  to  squirt  it  at 
Lizerunt.  For  then  Lizerunt  went  scampering 
madly,  with  piercing  shrieks,  until  her  bloke  was 
left  some  little  way  behind,  and  Sam  Cardew, 
turning  up  at  that  moment  and  seeing  her  run- 
ning alone  in  the  crowd,  threw  his  arms  about 
her  waist  and  swung  her  round  him  again  and 
again,  as  he  floundered  gallantly  this  way  and 
that,  among  the  shies  and  the  hokey-pokey 
barrows. 

"'Ulloo,  Lizer!  Where  are  y'  a-comin'  to? 
If  I  'ad  n't  laid  'old  o'  ye  — !  "  But  here  Billy 
Chope  arrived  to  demand  what  the  'ell  Sam 
Cardew  was  doing  with  his  gal.  Now  Sam  was 
ever  readier  for  a  fight  than  Billy  was;  but  the 
sum  of  Billy's  half-pints  was  large:  wherefore 
the  fight  began.  On  the  skirt  of  an  hilarious 
ring  Lizerunt,  after  some  small  outcry,  triumphed 
aloud.  Four  days  before,  she  had  no  bloke; 
and  here  she  stood  with  two,  and  those  two 
fighting  for  her!  Here  in  the  public  gaze,  on 
the  Flats!  For  almost  five  minutes  she  was 
Helen  of  Troy. 

And  in  much  less  time  Billy  tasted  repent- 
ance. The  haze  of  half-pints  was  dispelled,  and 
some  teeth  went  with  it.  Presently,  whimper- 
ing and  with  a  bloody  muzzle,  he  rose  and 

3 


34  LIZERUNT. 

made  a  running  kick  at  the  other.  Then,  being 
thwarted  in  a  bolt,  he  flung  himself  down;  and 
it  was  like  to  go  hard  with  him  at  the  hands  of 
the  crowd.  Punch  you  may  on  Wanstead  Flats, 
but  execration  and  worse  is  your  portion  if  you 
kick  anybody  except  your  wife.  But,  as  the 
ring  closed,  the  helmets  of  two  policemen  were 
seen  to  be  working  in  over  the  surrounding 
heads,  and  Sam  Cardew,  quickly  assuming  his 
coat,  turned  away  with  such  an  air  of  blame- 
lessness  as  is  practicable  with  a  damaged  eye; 
while  Billy  went  off  unheeded  in  an  opposite 
direction. 

Lizerunt  and  her  new  bloke  went  the  routine 
of  half-pints  and  merry-go-rounds,  and  were  soon 
on  right  thumping  terms ;  and  Lizerunt  was  as 
well  satisfied  with  the  issue  as  she  was  proud 
of  the  adventure.  Billy  was  all  very  well ;  but 
Sam  was  better.  She  resolved  to  draw  him  for 
a  feathered  hat  before  next  bank  holiday.  So 
the  sun  went  down  on  her  and  her  bloke  hang- 
ing on  each  other's  necks  and  straggling  toward 
the  Romford  Road  with  shouts  and  choruses. 
The  rest  was  tram-car,  Bow  Music  Hall,  half- 
pints,  and  darkness. 

Billy  took  home  his  wounds,  and  his  mother, 
having  moved  his  wrath  by  asking  their  origin, 
sought  refuge  with  a  neighbor.  He  accom- 


LIZER'S  WOOING.  35 

plished  his  revenge  in  two  instalments.  Two 
nights  later  Lizerunt  was  going  with  a  jug  of 
beer;  when  somebody  sprang  from  a  dark  cor- 
ner, landed  her  under  the  ear,  knocked  her 
sprawling,  and  made  off  to  the  sound  of  her 
lamentations.  She  did  not  see  who  it  was,  but 
she  knew ;  and  next  day  Sam  Cardew  was  swear- 
ing he'd  break  Billy's  back.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, for  that  same  evening  a  gang  of  seven  or 
eight  fell  on  him  with  sticks  and  belts.  (They 
were  Causeway  chaps,  while  Sam  was  a  Brady's 
Laner,  which  would  have  been  reason  enough 
by  itself,  even  if  Billy  Chope  had  not  been  one 
of  them.)  Sam  did  his  best  for  a  burst  through 
and  a  run,  but  they  pulled  and  battered  him 
down;  and  they  kicked  him  about  the  head,  and 
they  kicked  him  about  the  belly ;  and  they  took 
to  their  heels  when  he  was  speechless  and  still. 

He  lay  at  home  for  near  four  weeks,  and  when 
he  stood  up  again  it  was  in  many  bandages. 
Lizerunt  came  often  to  his  bedside,  and  twice 
she  brought  an  orange.  On  these  occasions 
there  was  much  talk  of  vengeance.  But  the 
weeks  went  on.  It  was  a  month  since  Sam  had 
left  his  bed ;  and  Lizerunt  was  getting  a  little 
tired  of  bandages.  Also,  she  had  begun  to 
doubt  and  to  consider  bank  holiday  —  scarce  a 
fortnight  off.  For  Sam  was  stone-broke,  and  a 
plush  hat  was  further  away  than  ever.  And  all 


3  6  LIZERUNT. 

through  the  later  of  these  weeks  Billy  Chope 
was  harder  than  ever  on  his  mother,  and  she, 
well  knowing  that  if  he  helped  her  by  taking 
home  he  would  pocket  the  money  at  the  other 
end,  had  taken  to  finishing  and  delivering  in 
his  absence,  and,  threats  failing  to  get  at  the 
money,  Billy  Chope  was  impelled  to  punch  her 
head  and  gripe  her  by  the  throat. 

There  was  a  milliner's  window,  with  a  show 
of  nothing  but  fashionable  plush-and-feather 
hats,  and  Lizerunt  was  lingering  hereabouts  one 
evening,  when  some  one  took  her  by  the  waist, 
and  some  one  said,  "  Which  d'  yer  like,  Lizer  ?  — 
The  yuller  un?  " 

Lizerunt  turned  and  saw  that  it  was  Billy. 
She  pulled  herself  away,  and  backed  off,  sullen 
and  distrustful.  "Garn,"  she  said. 

"Straight,"  said  Billy,  "I'll  sport  yer  one. 
—  No  kid,  I  will." 

"Garn,"  said  Lizerunt  once  more.  "Wot  yer 
gittin'  at  now? " 

But  presently,  being  convinced  that  bashing 
wasn't  in  it,  she  approached  less  guardedly; 
and  she  went  away  with  a  paper  bag  and  the 
reddest  of  all  the  plushes  and  the  bluest  of  all 
the  feathers ;  a  hat  that  challenged  all  the  Flats 
the  next  bank  holiday,  a  hat  for  which  no  girl 
need  have  hesitated  to  sell  her  soul.  As  for 


LIZER'S  WOOING.  37 

Billy,  why,  he  was  as  good  as  another;  and  you 
can't  have  everything;  and  Sam  Cardew,  with 
his  bandages  and  his  grunts  and  groans,  was  no 
great  catch  after  all. 

This  was  the  wooing  of  Lizerunt :  for  in  a  few 
months  she  and  Billy  married  under  the  bless- 
ing of  a  benignant  rector,  who  periodically  set 
aside  a  day  for  free  weddings,  and,  on  principle, 
encouraged  early  matrimony.  And  they  lived 
with  Billy's  mother. 


II. 

LIZER'S    FIRST. 

WHEN  Billy  Chope  married  Lizerunt  there 
was  a  small  rejoicing.  There  was  no 
wedding-party;  because  it  was  considered  that 
what  there  might  be  to  drink  would  be  better 
in  the  family.  Lizerunt 's  father  was  not,  and 
her  mother  felt  no  interest  in  the  affair;  not 
having  seen  her  daughter  for  a  year,  and  hap- 
pening, at  the  time,  to  have  a  month's  engage- 
ment in  respect  of  a  drunk  and  disorderly.  So 
that  there  were  but  three  of  them;  and  Billy 
Chope  got  exceedingly  tipsy  early  in  the  day; 
and  in  the  evening  his  bride  bawled  a  contin- 
ual chorus,  while  his  mother,  influenced  by  that 
unwonted  quartern  of  gin  the  occasion  sanc- 
tioned, wept  dismally  over  her  boy,  who  was 
much  too  far  gone  to  resent  it. 

His  was  the  chief  reason  for  rejoicing.  For 
Lizerunt  had  always  been  able  to  extract  ten 
shillings  a  week  from  the  pickle  factory,  and  it 
was  to  be  presumed  that  as  Lizer  Chope  her 
earning  capacity  would  not  diminish;  and  the 


LIZER'S  FIRST.  39 

wages  would  make  a  very  respectable  addition 
to  the  precarious  revenue,  depending  on  the 
mangle,  that  Billy  extorted  from  his  mother. 
As  for  Lizer,  she  was  married.  That  was  the 
considerable  thing;  for  she  was  but  a  few  months 
short  of  eighteen,  and  that,  as  you  know,  is  a 
little  late. 

Of  course  there  were  quarrels  very  soon ;  for 
the  new  Mrs.  Chope,  less  submissive  at  first 
than  her  mother-in-law,  took  a  little  breaking 
in,  and  a  liberal  renewal  of  the  manual  treat- 
ment once  applied  in  her  courting  days.  But 
the  quarrels  between  the  women  were  comfort- 
ing to  Billy:  a  diversion  and  a  source  of  better 
service. 

As  soon  as  might  be,  Lizer  took  the  way  of 
womankind.  This  circumstance  brought  an  un- 
expected half-crown  from  the  evangelical  rector 
who  had  married  the  couple  gratis;  for  recog- 
nizing Billy  in  the  street  by  accident,  and  being 
told  of  Mrs.  Chope's  prospects,  as  well  as  that 
Billy  was  out  of  work  (a  fact  undeniable),  he 
reflected  that  his  principles  did  on  occasion 
lead  to  discomfort  of  a  material  sort.  And 
Billy,  to  whose  comprehension  the  half-crown 
opened  a  new  field  of  receipt,  would  doubtless 
have  long  remained  a  client  of  the  rector,  had 
not  that  zealot  hastened  to  discover  a  vacancy 
for  a  warehouse  porter,  the  offer  of  presentation 


40  LIZERUNT. 

whereunto  alienated  Billy  Chope  forever.  But 
there  were  meetings  and  demonstrations  of  the 
Unemployed;  and  it  was  said  that  shillings  had 
been  given  away ;  and,  as  being  at  a  meeting  in 
a  street  was  at  least  as  amusing  as  being  in  a 
street  where  there  was  no  meeting,  Billy  often 
went,  on  the  off  chance.  But  his  lot  was  chiefly 
disappointment:  wherefore  he  became  more  es- 
pecially careful  to  furnish  himself  ere  he  left 
home. 

For  certain  weeks  cash  came  less  freely  than 
ever  from  the  two  women.  Lizer  spoke  of  pro- 
viding for  the  necessities  of  the  expected  child : 
a  manifestly  absurd  procedure,  as  Billy  pointed 
out,  since,  if  they  were  unable  to  clothe  or 
feed  it,  the  duty  would  fall  on  its  grandmother. 
That  was  law,  and  nobody  could  get  over  it. 
But  even  with  this  argument,  a  shilling  cost 
him  many  more  demands  and  threats  than  it 
had  used,  and  a  deal  more  general  trouble. 

At  last  Lizer  ceased  from  going  to  the  pickle 
factory,  and  could  not  even  help  Billy's  mother 
at  the  mangle  for  long.  This  lasted  for  near 
a  .week,  when  Billy,  rising  at  ten  with  a  bad 
mouth,  resolved  to  stand  no  nonsense,  and 
demanded  two  shillings. 

"Two  bob?     Wot  for?  "  Lizer  asked. 

"  'Cos  I  want  it.      None  o'  yer  lip." 

"Ain't  got  it,"  said  Lizer  sulkily. 


LIZER'S  FIRST.  41 

"That's  ableed'n  lie." 

"Lie  yerself. " 

"I'll  break  y'  in  'arves,  ye  blasted  'eifer!" 
He  ran  at  her  throat  and  forced  her  back  over 
a  chair.  "I  '11  pull  yer  face  auf !  If  y'  don't 
give  me  the  money,  gawblimy,  I  '11  do  for  ye! " 

Lizer  strained  and  squalled.  "Le'go!  You'll 
kill  me  an'  the  kid  too !  "  she  grunted  hoarsely. 
Billy's  mother  ran  in  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him,  dragging  him  away.  "Don't,  Billy,"  she 
said,  in  terror.  "Don't,  Billy  —  not  now! 
You  '11  get  in  trouble.  Come  away!  She  might 
go  auf,  an'  you  'd  get  in  trouble!  " 

Billy  Chope  flung  his  wife  over  and  turned 
to  his  mother.  "Take  yer  'ands  auf  me,"  he 
said:  "go  on,  or  I  '11  gi'  ye  somethin'  for  yer- 
self." And  he  punched  her  in  the  breast  by 
way  of  illustration. 

"You  shall  'ave  what  I've  got,  Billy,  if  it's 
money,"  the  mother  said.  "But  don't  go  an' 
git  yerself  in  trouble,  don't.  Will  a  shillin'do  ? " 

"No,  it  won't.  Think  I  'm  a  bloomin'  kid? 
I  mean  'avin'  two  bob  this  mornin'." 

"I  was  a-keepin'  it  for  the  rent,  Billy,  but  —  " 

"  Yus;  think  o'  the  bleed'n'  lan'lord  'fore  me, 
doncher?"  And  he  pocketed  the  two  shil- 
lings. "  I  ain't  settled  with  you  yut,  my  gal,"  he 
added  to  Lizer;  "mikin"  about  at  'ome  an'  'idin' 
money.  You  wait  a  bit. " 


42  LIZERUNT. 

Lizer  had  climbed  into  an  erect  position,  and, 
gravid  and  slow,  had  got  as  far  as  the  passage. 
Mistaking  this  for  a  safe  distance,  she  replied 
with  defiant  railings.  Billy  made  for  her  with 
a  kick  that  laid  her  on  the  lower  stairs,  and, 
swinging  his  legs  round  his  mother  as  she 
obstructed  him,  entreating  him  not  to  get  in 
trouble,  he  attempted  to  kick  again  in  a  more 
telling  spot.  But  a  movement  among  the  family 
upstairs  and  a  tap  at  the  door  hinted  of  inter- 
ference, and  he  took  himself  off. 

Lizer  lay  doubled  up  on  the  stairs,  howling: 
but  her  only  articulate  cry  was,  "Gawd  'elp  me, 
it  's  comin' !  " 

Billy  went  to  the  meeting  of  the  Unemployed, 
and  cheered  a  proposal  to  storm  the  Tower  of 
London.  But  he  did  not  join  the  procession 
following  a  man  with  a  handkerchief  on  a  stick, 
who  promised  destruction  to  every  policeman  in 
his  path :  for  he  knew  the  fate  of  such  proces- 
sions. With  a  few  others,  he  hung  about  the 
nearest  tavern  for  a  while,  on  the  chance  of  the 
advent  of  a  flush  sailor  from  St.  Katharine's, 
disposed  to  treat  out-o'-workers.  Then  he  went 
alone  to  a  quieter  beer-house  and  took  a  pint  or 
two  at  his  own  expense.  A  glance  down  the 
music-hall  bills  hanging  in  the  bar  having  given 
him  a  notion  for  the  evening,  he  bethought 
himself  of  dinner,  and  made  for  home. 


LIZER'S   FIRST.  43 

The  front  door  was  open,  and  in  the  first 
room,  where  the  mangle  stood,  there  were  no 
signs  of  dinner.  And  this  was  at  three  o'clock! 
Billy  pushed  into  the  room  behind,  demanding 
why. 

"  Billy,  "Lizer  said  faintly  from  her  bed,  "look 
at  the  baby!" 

Something  was  moving  feebly  under  a  flannel 
petticoat.  Billy  pulled  the  petticoat  aside,  and 
said,  "That?  Well,  it  is  a  measly  snipe."  It 
was  a  blind,  hairless  homunculus,  short  of  a 
foot  long,  with  a  skinny  face  set  in  a  great 
skull.  There  was  a  black  bruise  on  one  side 
from  hip  to  armpit.  Billy  dropped  the  petticoat 
and  said,  "Where  's  my  dinner?  " 

"I  dunno,"  Lizer  responded  hazily.  "Wot's 
the  time?  " 

"Time?  Don't  try  to  kid  me.  You  git  up; 
go  on.  I  want  my  dinner." 

"Mother's  gittin'  it,  I  think,"  said  Lizer. 
"Doctor  bad  to  slap  'im  like  anythink  'fore  'e 'd 
cry.  'E  don't  cry  now  much.  'E  —  " 

"Go  on;  out  ye  git.  I  do'want  no  more  damn 
jaw.  Git  my  dinner." 

"I  'm  a-gittin'  of  it,  Billy,"  his  mother  said, 
at  the  door.  She  had  begun  when  he  first 
entered.  "It  won't  be  a  minute." 

"You  come  'ere;  y'  aint  alwis  s'  ready  to  do 
'er  work,  are  ye?  She  ain't  no  call  to  stop 


44  LIZERUNT. 

there  no  longer,  an'  I  owe  'er  one  for  this 
mornin'.  Will  ye  git  out,  or  shall  I  kick  ye?  " 

"She  can't,  Billy,"  his  mother  said.  And 
Lizer  snivelled  and  said,  "  You  're  a  damn  brute. 
Y'  ought  to  be  bleedin'  well  booted." 

But  Billy  had  her  by  the  shoulders  and  began 
to  haul;  and  again  his  mother  besought  him  to 
remember  what  he  might  bring  upon  himself. 
At  this  moment  the  doctor's  dispenser,  a  fourth- 
year  London  Hospital  student  of  many  inches, 
who  had  been  washing  his  hands  in  the  kitchen, 
came  in.  For  a  moment  he  failed  to  compre- 
hend the  scene.  Then  he  took  Billy  Chope  by 
the  collar,  hauled  him  pell-mell  along  the  pas- 
sage, kicked  him  (hard)  into  the  gutter,  and 
shut  the  door. 

When  he  returned  to  the  room,  Lizer,  sitting 
up  and  holding  on  by  the  bed-frame,  gasped 
hysterically:  "Ye  bleedin'  makeshift,  I'd  'ave 
yer  liver  out  if  I  could  reach  ye!  You  touch 
my  'usband,  ye  long  pisenin'  'ound  you!  Ow!" 
And,  infirm  of  aim,  she  flung  a  cracked  teacup 
at  his  head.  Billy's  mother  said,  "  Y'  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself,  you  low  blaggard.  If 
'is  father  was  alive  'e 'd  knock  yer  'ead  auf. 
Call  yourself  a  doctor  —  a  passel  o'  boys  !  — 
Git  out!  Go  out  o'  my  'ouse,  or  I  '11  give  y'  in 
charge ! " 

"But  —  why,  hang  it,  he'd  have  killed  her." 
Then  to  Lizer,  "Lie  down." 


LIZER'S  FIRST.  45 

"Sha'n't  lay  down.  Keep  auf!  if  you  come 
near  me  I  '11  corpse  ye.  You  go  while  ye  're 
safe !  " 

The  dispenser  appealed  to  Billy's  mother. 
"For  God's  sake  make  her  lie  down.  She'll 
kill  herself.  I  '11  go.  Perhaps  the  doctor  had 
better  come."  And  he  went:  leaving  the  coast 
clear  for  Billy  Chope  to  return  and  avenge  his 
kicking. 


III. 

A   CHANGE   OF   CIRCUMSTANCES. 

T  IZER  was  some  months    short    of    twenty- 
-L/    one  when  her  third  child  was  born.      The 
pickle    factory   had    discarded    her   some    time 
before,  and  since  that   her  trade  had  consisted 
in  odd   jobs   of   charing.      Odd   jobs  of  charing 
have  a  shade  the  better  of  a  pickle  factory  in 
the  matter  of  respectability,  but  they  are  pre- 
carious, and  they  are  worse  paid  at  that.      In 
the  East  End  they  are  sporadic  and  few.      More- 
over, it  is  in  the  household  where  paid  help  is 
a  rarity  that  the  bitterness  of  servitude  is  felt. 
Also,    the   uncertainty  and    irregularity  of   the 
returns  were  a  trouble  to  Billy  Chope.      He  was 
never  sure  of  having  got  them   all.      It  might 
be  ninepence,   or  a  shilling,   or  eighteenpence. 
Once  or  twice,   to  his  knowledge,  it  had  been 
half-a-crown,    from  a  chance  job  at  a  doctor's 
or  a  parson's,  and  once  it  was   three   shillings. 
That  it  might  be  half-a-crown  or  three  shillings 
again,  and  that  some  of  it  was  being  kept  back, 
was  ever  the  suspicion  evoked  by  Lizer's  even- 


A   CHANGE   OF  CIRCUMSTANCES.  47 

ing  homing.  Plainly,  with  these  fluctuating  and 
uncertain  revenues,  more  bashing  than  ever  was 
needed  to  insure  the  extraction  of  the  last  cop- 
per; empty -handedness  called  for  bashing  on  its 
own  account;  so  that  it  was  often  Lizer's  hap 
to  be  refused  a  job  because  of  a  black  eye. 

Lizer's  self  was  scarcely  what  it  had  been. 
The  red  of  her  cheeks,  once  bounded  only  by 
the  eyes  and  the  mouth,  had  shrunk  to  a  spot  in 
the  depth  of  each  hollow;  gaps  had  been  driven 
in  her  big  white  teeth ;  even  the  snub  nose  had 
run  to  a  point,  and  the  fringe  hung  dry  and 
ragged,  while  the  bodily  outline  was  as  a  sack's. 
At  home,  the  children  lay  in  her  arms  or  tumbled 
at  her  heels,  puling  and  foul.  Whenever  she 
was  near  it,  there  was  the  mangle  to  be  turned; 
for  lately  Billy's  mother  had  exhibited  a  strange 
weakness,  sometimes  collapsing  with  a  gasp  in 
the  act  of  brisk  or  prolonged  exertion,  and  often 
leaning  on  whatever  stood  hard  by  and  grasping 
at  her  side.  This  ailment  she  treated,  when  she 
had  twopence,  in  such  terms  as  made  her  smell 
of  gin  and  peppermint;  and  more  than  once  this 
circumstance  had  inflamed  the  breast  of  Billy  her 
son,  who  was  morally  angered  by  this  boozing 
away  of  money  that  was  really  his. 

Lizer's  youngest,  being  seven  or  eight  months 
old,  was  mostly  taking  care  of  itself,  when  Billy 
made  a  welcome  discovery  after  a  hard  and 


48  LIZERUNT. 

pinching  day.  The  night  was  full  of  blinding 
wet,  and  the  rain  beat  on  the  window  as  on  a 
drum.  Billy  sat  over  a  small  fire  in  the  front 
room  smoking  his  pipe,  while  his  mother  folded 
clothes  for  delivery.  He  stamped  twice  on  the 
hearth,  and  then,  drawing  off  his  boot,  he  felt 
inside  it.  It  was  a  nail.  The  poker-head  made 
a  good  anvil,  and,  looking  about  for  a  hammer, 
Billy  bethought  him  of  a  brick  from  the  mangle. 
He  rose,  and,  lifting  the  lid  of  the  weight-box, 
groped  about  among  the  clinkers  and  the  other 
ballast  till  he  came  upon  a  small  but  rather 
heavy  paper  parcel.  "'Ere  —  wot 's  this?"  he 
said,  and  pulled  it  out. 

His  mother,  whose  back  had  been  turned, 
hastened  across  the  room,  hand  to  breast  (it  had 
got  to  be  her  habit).  "What  is  it,  Billy?"  she 
said.  "Not  that:  there's  nothing  there.  I'll 
get  anything  you  want,  Billy."  And  she  made  a 
nervous  catch  at  the  screw  of  paper.  But  Billy 
fended  her  off,  and  tore  the  package  open.  It 
was  money,  arranged  in  little  columns  of  far- 
things, halfpence,  and  threepenny  pieces,  with  a 
few  sixpences,  a  shilling  or  two,  and  a  single 
half-sovereign.  "O,"  said  Billy,  "this  is  the 
game,  is  it  ?  —  'idin'  money  in  the  mangle !  Got 
anymore?"  And  he  hastily  turned  the  brick- 
bats. 

"No,   Billy,   don't   take   that  — don't!"    im- 


A   CHANGE   OF  CIRCUMSTANCES.  49 

plored  his  mother.  "There'll  be  some  money 
for  them  things  when  they  go  'ome  —  'ave  that. 
I  'm  savin'  it,  Billy,  for  something  partic'ler: 
s'elp  me  Gawd,  I  am,  Billy." 

"  Yus,"  replied  Billy,  raking  diligently  among 
the  clinkers,  "savin'  it  for  a  good  ol'  booze. 
An'  now  you  won't  'ave  one.  Bleedin'  nice 
thing,  'idin'  money  away  from  yer  own  son  !  " 

"It  ain't  for  that,  Billy  —  s'elp  me,  it  ain't; 
it  's  case  anythink  'appens  to  me.  On'y  to  put 
me  away  decent,  Billy,  that 's  all.  We  never 
know,  an'  you'll  be  glad  of  it  t'elp  bury  me  if 
I  should  go  any  time  — 

"I  '11  be  glad  of  it  now,"  answered  Billy,  who 
had  it  in  his  pocket ;  "  an'  I  Ve  got  it.  You 
ain't  a  dyin'  sort,  you  ain't;  an'  if  you  was,  the 
parish  'ud  soon  tuck  you  up.  P'raps  you'll  be 
straighter  about  money  after  this." 

"  Let  me  'ave  some,  then,  —  you  can't  want  it 
all.  Give  me  some,  an'  then  'ave  the  money 
for  the  things.  There  's  ten  dozen  and  seven, 
and  you  can  take  'em  yerself  if  ye  like." 

"Wot  —  in  this  'ere  rain?  Not  me!  I  bet 
I  'd  'ave  the  money  if  I  wanted  it  without  that. 
'Ere  —  change  these  'ere  fardens  at  the  draper's 
wen  you  go  out :  there  's  two  bob's  worth  an'  a 
penn'orth ;  I  don't  want  to  bust  my  pockets  wi' 
them." 

While   they   spoke   Lizer  had  come  in  from 

4 


5O  -  LIZERUNT. 

the  back  room.  But  she  said  nothing:  she 
rather  busied  herself  with  a  child  she  had  in 
her  arms.  When  Billy's  mother,  despondent 
and  tearful,  had  tramped  out  into  the  rain  with 
a  pile  of  clothes  in  an  oilcloth  wrapper,  she 
said  sulkily,  without  looking  up,  "You  might 
'a'  let  'er  kep'  that;  you  git  all  you  want." 

At  another  time  this  remonstrance  would  have 
provoked  active  hostilities;  but  now,  with  the 
money  about  him,  Billy  was  complacently  dis- 
posed. "You  shutcher  'ead,"  he  said,  "I  got 
this,  any'ow.  She  can  make  it  up  out  o'  my  rent 
if  she  likes."  This  last  remark  was  a  joke, 
and  he  chuckled  as  he  made  it.  For  Billy's  rent 
was  a  simple  fiction,  devised,  on  the  suggestion 
of  a  smart  canvasser,  to  give  him  a  parliamentary 
vote. 

That  night  Billy  and  Lizer  slept,  as  usual,  in 
the  bed  in  the  back  room,  where  the  two  younger 
children  also  were.  Billy's  mother  made  a  bed- 
stead nightly  with  three  chairs  and  an  old  trunk 
in  the  front  room  by  the  mangle,  and  the  eldest 
child  lay  in  a  floor-bed  near  her.  Early  in  the 
morning  Lizer  awoke  at  a  sudden  outcry  of  the 
little  creature.  He  clawed  at  the  handle  till 
he  opened  the  door,  and  came  staggering  and 
tumbling  into  the  room  with  screams  of  terror. 
"Wring  'is  blasted  neck,"  his  father  grunted 
sleepily.  "Wot  's  the  kid  'owlin'  for?  " 


A  CHANGE   OF   CIRCUMSTANCES.  51 

"I's  Taid  o'  g'anny  —  I's  Taid  o'  g'anny!" 
was  all  the  child  could  say;  and  when  he  had 
said  it,  he  fell  to  screaming  once  more. 

Lizer  rose  and  went  to  the  next  room;  and 
straightway  came  a  scream  from  her  also.  "  O 
_O  —  Billy!  Billy!  O  my  Gawd!  Billy, 
come  'ere!" 

And  Billy,  fully  startled,  followed  in  Lizer's 
wake.  He  blundered  in,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and 
saw. 

Stark  on  her  back  in  the  huddled  bed  of  old 
wrappers  and  shawls  lay  his  mother.  The  out- 
line of  her  poor  face  —  strained  in  an  upward 
stare  of  painful  surprise  —  stood  sharp  and 
meagre  against  the  black  of  the  grate  beyond. 
But  the  muddy  old  skin  was  white,  and  looked 
cleaner  than  its  wont,  and  many  of  the  wrinkles 
were  gone. 

Billy  Chope,  half-way  across  the  floor,  recoiled 
from  the  corpse,  and  glared  at  it  pallidly  from 
the  doorway. 

"  Good  Gawd !  "  he  croaked  faintly,  "  is  she 
dead?" 

Seized  by  a  fit  of  shuddering  breaths,  Lizer 
sank  on  the  floor,  and,  with  her  head  across  the 
body,  presently  broke  into  a  storm  of  hysterical 
blubbering,  while  Billy,  white  and  dazed,  dressed 
hurriedly  and  got  out  of  the  house.  He  was  at 
home  as  little  as  might  be  until  the  coroner's 


52  LIZERUNT. 

officer  carried  away  the  body  two  days  later. 
When  he  came  for  his  meals,  he  sat  doubtful 
and  querulous  in  the  matter  of  the  front  room 
door's  being  shut.  The  dead  once  clear  away, 
however,  he  resumed  his  faculties,  and  clearly 
saw  that  here  was  a  bad  change  for  the  worse. 
There  was  the  mangle,  but  who  was  to  work  it  ? 
If  Lizer  did,  there  would  be  no  more  charing 
jobs  —  a  clear  loss  of  one-third  of  his  income. 
And  it  was  not  at  all  certain  that  the  people 
who  had  given  their  mangling  to  his  mother 
would  give  it  to  Lizer.  Indeed,  it  was  pretty 
sure  that  many  would  not,  because  mangling  is 
a  thing  given  by  preference  to  widows,  and 
many  widows  of  the  neighborhood  were  per- 
petually competing  for  it.  Widows,  moreover, 
had  the  first  call  in  most  odd  jobs  whereunto 
Lizer  might  turn  her  hand:  an  injustice  whereon 
Billy  meditated  with  bitterness. 

The  inquest  was  formal  and  unremarked,  the 
medical  officer  having  no  difficulty  in  certifying 
a  natural  death  from  heart  disease.  The  bright 
idea  of  a  collection  among  the  jury,  which  Billy 
communicated,  with  pitiful  representations,  to 
the  coroner's  officer,  was  brutally  swept  aside 
by  that  functionary,  made  cunning  by  much 
experience.  So  the  inquest  brought  him  nought 
save  disappointment  and  a  sense  of  injury.  .  .  . 


A    CHANGE   OF   CIRCUMSTANCES.  53 

The  mangling  orders  fell  away  as  suddenly 
and  completely  as  he  had  feared:  they  were  duly 
absorbed  among  the  local  widows.  Neglect  the 
children  as  Lizer  might,  she  could  no  longer 
leave  them  as  she  had  done.  Things,  then, 
were  bad  with  Billy,  and  neither  threats  nor 
thumps  could  evoke  a  shilling  now. 

It  was  more  than  Billy  could  bear:  so  that, 
"'Ere,"  he  said  one  night,  "I  've  'ad  enough  o' 
this.  You  go  and  get  some  money;  go  on." 

"  Go  an'  git  it  ?  "  replied  Lizer.  "  O  yus. 
That's  easy,  ain't  it?  '  Go  an'  git  it,'  says 
you.  'Ow?" 

"  Any'ow  —  I  don't  care.     Go  on. " 

"Wy,"  replied  Lizer,  looking  up  with  wide 
eyes,  "d'ye  think  I  can  go  an'  pick  it  up  in  the 
street?  " 

"  Course  you  can.  Plenty  others  does,  don't 
they?" 

"  Gawd,  Billy  ....   wot  d'  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Wot  I  say ;  plenty  others  does  it.  Go  on  — 
you  ain't  so  bleed'n'  innocent  as  all  that.  Go 
an'  see  Sam  Cardew.  Go  on  —  'ook  it." 

Lizer,  who  had  been  kneeling  at  the  child's 
floor-bed,  rose  to  her  feet,  pale-faced  and  bright 
of  eye. 

"Stow  kiddin',  Billy,"  she  said.  "You  don't 
mean  that.  I  '11  go  round  to  the  factory  in  the 
mornin' :  p'raps  they  '11  take  me  on  temp'ry. " 


54  LIZERUNT. 

"Damn  the  fact'ry." 

He  pushed  her  into  the  passage.  "  Go  on  — 
you  git  me  some  money,  if  ye  don't  want  yer 
bleed'n'  'ead  knocked  auf. " 

There  was  a  scuffle  in  the  dark  passage,  with 
certain  blows,  a  few  broken  words,  and  a  sob. 
Then  the  door  slammed,  and  Lizer  Chope  was 
in  the  windy  street. 


WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS. 


WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS. 

ALL  East  London  idled,  or  walked  in  a  pro- 
cession, or  waylaid  and  bashed,  or  cried 
in  an  empty  kitchen :  for  it  was  the  autumn  of 
the  Great  Strikes.  One  army  of  men,  having 
been  prepared,  was  ordered  to  strike  —  and 
struck.  Other  smaller  armies  of  men,  with  no 
preparation,  were  ordered  to  strike  to  express 
sympathy  —  and  struck.  Other  armies  still 
were  ordered  to  strike  because  it  was  the  fashion 
—  and  struck.  Then  many  hands  were  dis- 
charged because  the  strikes  in  other  trades  left 
them  no  work.  Many  others  came  from  other 
parts  in  regiments  to  work,  but  remained  to 
loaf  in  gangs :  taught  by  the  example  of  earlier 
regiments,  which,  the  situation  being  explained 
(an  expression  devised  to  include  mobbings  and 
kickings  and  flingings  into  docks),  had  returned 
whence  they  came.  So  that  East  London  was 
very  noisy  and  largely  hungry;  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  looked  on  with  intense  interest,  mak- 
ing earnest  suggestions,  and  comprehending 
nothing.  Lots  of  strikers,  having  no  strike  pay 


58  WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS. 

and  finding  little  nourishment  in  processions, 
started  off  to  walk  to  Manchester,  Birmingham, 
Liverpool,  or  Newcastle,  where  work  might  be 
got.  Along  the  Great  North  Road  such  men 
might  be  seen  in  silent  companies  of  a  dozen 
or  twenty,  now  and  again  singly  or  in  couples. 
At  the  tail  of  one  such  gang,  which  gathered  in 
the  Burdett  Road  and  found  its  way  into  the 
Enfield  Road  by  way  of  Victoria  Park,  Clapton, 
and  Stamford  Hill,  walked  a  little  group  of 
three:  a  voluble  young  man  of  thirty,  a  stolid 
workman  rather  older,  and  a  pale,  anxious  little 
fellow,  with  a  nasty  spasmic  cough  and  a  canvas 
bag  of  tools. 

The  little  crowd  straggled  over  the  footpath 
and  the  road,  few  of  its  members  speaking,  most 
of  them  keeping  to  their  places  and  themselves. 
As  yet  there  was  nothing  of  the  tramp  in  the 
aspect  of  these  mechanics.  With  their  washed 
faces  and  well-mended  clothes  they  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  jury  coming  from  a  local  in- 
quest. As  the  streets  got  broken  and  detached, 
with  patches  of  field  between,  they  began  to  look 
about  them.  One  young  fellow  in  front  (with 
no  family  to  think  of),  who  looked  upon  the 
enterprise  as  an  amusing  sort  of  tour,  and  had 
even  brought  an  accordion,  began  to  rebel 
against  the  general  depression,  and  attempted  a 
joke  about  going  to  the  Alexandra  Palace.  But 


WITHOUT   VISIBLE  MEANS.  59 

in  the  rear,  the  little  man  with  the  canvas  bag, 
putting  his  hand  abstractedly  into  his  pocket, 
suddenly  stared  and  stopped.  He  drew  out  the 
hand,  and  saw  in  it  three  shillings. 

"S'elp  me,"  he  said,  "the  missis  is  done  that 
—  shoved  it  in  unbeknown  when  I  come  away ! 
An'  she  's  on'y  got  a  bob  for  'erself  an'  the 
kids."  He  broke  into  a  sweat  of  uneasiness. 
"  I  '11  'ave  to  send  it  back  at  the  next  post-office, 
that 'sail." 

"  Send  it  back  ?  not  you  !  "  Thus  with  deep 
scorn  the  voluble  young  man  at  his  side.  She  '// 
be  all  right,  you  lay  your  life.  A  woman  allus 
knows  'ow  to  look  after  'erself.  You  '11  bleed'n' 
soon  want  it,  an'  bad.  You  do  as  I  tell  you, 
Joey:  stick  to  it.  That's  right,  Dave,  ain't 
it?" 

"Matter  o'  fancy,"  replied  the  stolid  man. 
"My  missis  cleared  my  pockets  out  'fore  I  got 
away.  Should  n't  wonder  at  bein'  sent  after  for 
leavin'  'er  chargeable  if  I  don't  soon  send  some 
more.  Women  's  different" 

The  march  continued,  and  grew  dustier.  The 
cheerful  pilgrim  in  front  produced  his  accordion. 
At  Palmer's  Green  four  went  straight  ahead  to 
try  for  work  at  the  Enfield  Arms  Factory.  The 
others,  knowing  the  thing  hopeless,  turned  off 
to  the  left  for  Potter's  Bar. 

After  a  long  silence,  "Which '11  be  nearest, 


60  WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS. 

Dave,"  asked  little  Joey  Clayton,   "Newcastle 
or  Middlesborough?  " 

"  Middlesborough,"  said  Dave;  "I  done  it 
afore. " 

"Trampin'  ain't  so  rough  on  a  man,  is  it, 
after  all  ?  "  asked  Joey  wistfully.  "  You  done  all 
right,  did  n't  you?  " 

"Got  through.  All  depends,  though  it's 
rough  enough.  Matter  o'  luck.  /  'ad  the  bad 
weather." 

"If  I  don't  get  a  good  easy  job  where  we  're 
goin',"  remarked  the  voluble  young  man,  "I'll 
'ave  a  strike  there  too." 

"  'Ave  a  strike  there?"  exclaimed  Joey. 
"'Ow?  Who'd  call  'em  out?" 

"Wy,  /would.  I  think  I'm  equal  to  doin' 
it,  ain't  I?  An'  when  workin'  men  stand  idle 
an'  'ungry  in  the  midst  o'  the  wealth  an'  the 
lukshry  an'  the  igstravagance  they  've  produced 
with  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  why,  then,  feller- 
workmen,  it 's  time  to  act.  It 's  time  to  bring 
the  nigger-drivin'  bloated  capitalists  to  their 
knees." 

"'Ear,  'ear,"  applauded  Joey  Clayton;  tamely, 
perhaps,  for  the  words  were  not  new.  "  Good 
on  yer,  Newman ! "  Newman  had  a  habit  of 
practising  this  sort  of  thing  in  snatches  when- 
ever he  saw  the  chance.  He  had  learnt  the 
trick  in  a  debating  society;  and  Joey  Clayton 


WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS.  6 1 

was  always  an  applausive  audience.  There  was 
a  pause,  the  accordion  started  another  tune, 
and  Newman  tried  a  different  passage  of  his 
harangue. 

"  In  the  shop  they  call  me  Skulky  Newman. 
Why?  'Cos  I  skulk,  o'  course"  ("'Ear,  'ear," 
dreamily  —  from  Dave  this  time).  "I  ain't 
ashamed  of  it,  my  friends.  I  'm  a  miker  out 
an'  out,  an'  I  'ope  I  shall  always  remain  a  miker. 
The  less  a  worker  does  the  more  'as  to  be  im- 
ployed,  don't  they?  An'  the  more  the  toilers 
wrings  out  o'  the  capitalists,  don't  they?  Very 
well  then,  I  mike,  an'  I  do  it  as  a  sacred  dooty." 

"  You  '11  'ave  all  the  mikin'  you  want  for  a 
week  or  two, "  said  Dave  Burge  placidly.  "  Stow 
it." 

At  Potter's  Bar  the  party  halted  and  sat  under 
a  hedge  to  eat  hunks  of  bread  and  cheese  (or 
hunks  of  bread  and  nothing  else)  and  to  drink 
cold  tea  out  of  cans.  Skulky  Newman,  who  had 
brought  nothing,  stood  in  with  his  two  friends. 
As  they  started  anew  and  turned  into  the  Great 
North  Road  he  said,  stretching  himself  and 
looking  slyly  at  Joey  Clayton,  "  If  Pd  got  a  bob 
or  two  I  'd  stand  you  two  blokes  a  pint  apiece. " 

Joey  looked  troubled.  "Well,  as  you  ain't, 
I  suppose  I  ought  to,"  he  said  uneasily,  turning 
toward  the  little  inn  hard  by.  "Dave,"  he  cried 
to  Burge,  who  was  walking  on,  "won't  you  'ave 


62  WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS. 

a  drink?"  And,  "Well,  if  you  are  goin'  to  do 
the  toff,  I  ain't  proud,"  was  the  slow  reply. 

Afterward  Joey  was  inclined  to  stop  at  the 
post-office  to  send  away  at  least  two  shillings. 
But  Newman  would  n't.  He  enlarged  on  the 
improvidence  of  putting  out  of  reach  that  which 
might  be  required  on  an  emergency,  he  repeated 
his  axiom  as  to  a  woman's  knack  of  keeping  alive 
in  spite  of  all  things:  and  Joey  determined  not 
to  send  —  for  a  day  or  so  at  any  rate. 

The  road  got  looser  and  dustier;  the  symp- 
toms of  the  tramp  came  out  stronger  and 
stronger  on  the  gang.  The  accordion  struck  up 
from  time  to  time,  but  ceased  toward  the  end  of 
the  afternoon.  The  player  wearied,  and  some 
of  the  older  men,  soon  tired  of  walking,  were 
worried  by  the  noise.  Joey  Clayton,  whose 
cough  was  aggravated  by  the  dust,  was  especially 
tortured,  after  every  fit,  to  hear  the  thing  drawl- 
ing and  whooping  the  tune  it  had  drawled  and 
whooped  a  dozen  times  before ;  but  he  said  noth- 
ing, scarce  knowing  what  annoyed  him. 

At  Hatfield  Station  two  of  the  foremost  picked 
up  a  few  coppers  by  helping  with  a  heavy  trap- 
load  of  luggage.  Up  Digswell  Hill  the  party 
tailed  out  lengthily,  and  Newman,  who  had 
been  letting  off  a  set  speech,  was  fain  to  save 
his  wind.  The  night  came,  clear  to  see  and 
sweet  to  smell.  Between  Welwyn  and  Codicote 


WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS.  63 

the  company' broke  up  to  roost  in  such  barns  as 
they  might  possess:  all  but  the  master  of  the 
accordion,  who  had  stayed  at  a  little  public- 
house  at  Welwyn,  with  the  notion  of  earning  a 
pot  of  beer  and  a  stable-corner  (or  better)  by  a 
tune  in  the  tap-room.  Dave  Burge  lighted  on 
a  lone  shed  of  thatched  hurdles  with  loose  hay 
in  it,  and  Newman  straightway  curled  in  the 
snuggest  corner  on  most  of  the  hay.  Dave 
Burge  pulled  some  from  under  him,  and,  having 
helped  Joey  Clayton  to  build  a  nest  in  the  best 
place  left,  was  soon  snoring.  But  Joey  lay 
awake  all  night,  and  sat  up  and  coughed  and 
turned  restlessly,  being  unused  to  the  circum- 
stances and  apprehensive  of  those  months  in 
jail  which  (it  is  well  known)  are  rancorously 
dealt  forth  among  all  them  that  sleep  in  barns. 

Luck  provided  a  breakfast  next  morning  at 
Codicote :  for  three  bicyclists,  going  north, 
stood  cold  beef  and  bread  round  at  The  Anchor. 
The  man  with  the  accordion  caught  up.  He  had 
made  his  lodging  and  breakfast  and  eightpence : 
this  had  determined  him  to  stay  at  Hitchin,  and 
work  it  for  at  least  a  day,  and  then  to  diverge 
into  the  towns  and  let  the  rest  go  their  way. 
So  beyond  Hitchin  there  was  no  music. 

Joey  Clayton  soon  fell  slow.  Newman  had 
his  idea;  and  the  three  were  left  behind,  and 
Joey  staggered  after  his  mates  with  difficulty. 


64  WITHOUT   VISIBLE  MEANS. 

He  lacked  sleep,  and  he  lacked  stamina.  Dave 
Burge  took  the  canvas  bag,  and  there  were  many 
rests :  when  Newman,  expressing  a  resolve  to 
stick  by  his  fellow-man  through  thick  and  thin, 
hinted  at  drinks.  Dave  Burge  made  twopence 
at  Henlow  level  crossing  by  holding  an  unsteady 
horse  while  a  train  passed.  Joey  saw  little  of 
the  rest  of  the  day;  the  road  was  yellow  and 
dazzling,  his  cough  tore  him,  and  things  were 
red  sometimes  and  sometimes  blue.  He  walked 
without  knowing  it,  now  helped,  now  lurching 
on  alone.  The  others  of  the  party  were  far 
ahead  and  forgotten.  There  was  talk  of  a  wind- 
mill ahead,  where  there  would  be  rest;  and  the 
three  men  camped  in  an  old  boathouse  by  the 
river  just  outside  Biggleswade.  Joey,  sleeping 
as  he  tottered,  fell  in  a  heap  and  lay  without 
moving  from  sunset  to  broad  morning. 

When  he  woke  Dave  Burge  was  sitting  at  the 
door,  but  Newman  was  gone.  Also,  there  was 
no  sign  of  the  canvas  bag. 

"No  use  lookin',"  said  Dave;  "'e's  done  it." 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"  Skulky  's  'opped  the  twig  an'  sneaked  your 
tools.  Gawd  knows  where  'e  is  by  now." 

"No  —  "  the  little  man  gasped,  sitting  up  in 
a  pale  sweat.  ..."  Not  sneaked  'em  ...  is 
'e?  .  .  .  S'elp  me,  there's  a  set  o'  callipers 
worth  fifteen  bob  in  that  bag  .  .  .  'e  ain't 
gawn  .  .  .  ?  " 


WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS.  65 

Dave  Burge  nodded  inexorably. 

"Best  feel  in  your  pockets,"  he  said,  "p'raps 
'e  's  bin  there." 

He  had.  The  little  man  broke  down.  "I 
was  a-goin'  to  send  'ome  that  two  bob  —  s'elp 
me,  I  was.  .  .  .  An'  what  can  I  do  without  my 
tools?  If  I  'd  got  no  job  I  could  'a  pawned  'em 
—  an'  then  I  'd  'a  sent  'ome  the  money  —  s'elp 
me  I  would.  .  .  .  O,  it'scrool!" 

The  walking,  with  the  long  sleep  after  it,  had 
left  him  sore  and  stiff,  and  Dave  had  work  to 
put  him  on  the  road  again.  He  had  forgotten 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  asked,  at  first,  for  the 
others.  They  tramped  in  silence  for  a  few 
miles:  when  Joey  suddenly  flung  himself  upon 
a  tussock  by  the  wayside. 

"  Why  won't  nobody  let  me  live  ?  "  he  snivelled. 
"I'm  a  'armless  bloke  enough.  I  worked  at 
Ritterson's,  man  and  boy,  very  nigh  twenty  year. 
When  they  come  an'  ordered  us  out,  I  come 
out  with  the  others,  peaceful  enough;  I  didn't 
want  to  chuck  it  up,  Gawd  knows,  but  I  come 
out  promp'  when  they  told  me.  And  when  I 
found  another  job  on  the  Island,  four  big  blokes 
set  about  me  an'  'arf  killed  me.  /did  n't  know 
the  place  was  blocked.  And  when  two  o'  the 
blokes  was  took  up,  they  said  I  'd  get  strike-pay 
again  if  I  did  n't  identify 'em;  so  I  did  n't.  But 

5 


66  WITHOUT   VISIBLE   MEANS. 

they  never  give  me  no  strike-pay  —  they  laughed 
an'  chucked  me  out.  An'  now  I  'm  a-starvin' 
on  the  'igh  road.  An'  Skulky  .  .  .  blimy  .  .  . 
*e  's  done  me  too  !  " 

There  were  days  wherein  Joey  learned  to  eat 
a  swede  pulled  from  behind  a  wagon,  and  to 
feel  thankful  for  an  early  turnip;  might  have 
learned,  too,  just  what  tramping  means  in  many 
ways  to  a  man  unskilled  both  in  begging  and  in 
theft,  but  was  never  equal  to  it.  He  coughed 
— •  and  worse :  holding  to  posts  and  gates,  and 
often  spitting  blood.  He  had  little  to  say,  but 
trudged  mechanically,  taking  note  of  nothing. 

Once,  as  though  aroused  from  a  reverie,  he 
asked,  "  Was  n't  there  some  others?" 

"  Others  ? "  said  Dave,  for  a  moment  taken 
aback.  "  O,  yes,  there  was  some  others. 
They're  gone  on  ahead,  y' know. " 

Joey  tramped  for  half  a  mile  in  silence.  Then 
he  said,  "  Expect  they  're  'avin'  a  rough  time 
too." 

"Ah  — very  like,"  said  Dave. 

For  a  space  Joey  was  silent,  save  for  the 
cough.  Then  he  went  on :  "  Comes  o'  not 
bringing  'cordions  with  'em.  Every  one  ought 
to  take  a  'cordion  what  goes  trampin'.  I  knew 
a  man  once  that  went  trampin',  an'  'e  took  a 
'cordion.  He  done  all  right.  It  ain't  so  rough 


WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS.  6/ 

for  them  as  plays  on  the  'cordion. "  And  Dave 
Burge  rubbed  his  cap  about  his  head  and  stared; 
but  answered  nothing. 

It  was  a  bad  day.  Crusts  were  begged  at  cot- 
tages. Every  rise  and  every  turn,  the  eternal 
yellow  road  lay  stretch  on  stretch  before  them, 
flouting  their  unrest.  Joey,  now  unimpression- 
able, endured  more  placidly  than  even  Dave 
Burge.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  "No,"  he  said, 
"  it  ain't  so  rough  for  them  as  plays  the  'cordion. 
They 'as  the  best  of  it.  ...  S'elp  me,"  he 
added  suddenly,  "we're  all  'cordions!"  He 
sniggered  thoughtfully,  and  then  burst  into  a 
cough  that  left  him  panting.  "We're  nothin' 
but  a  bloomin'  lot  o'  'cordions  ourselves,"  he 
went  on,  having  got  his  breath,  "an'  they  play 
any  toon  they  like  on  us;  an'  that's  'ow  they 
make  their  livin'.  S'elp  me,  Dave,  we're  all 
'cordions."  And  he  laughed. 

"  Um  —  yus,"  the  other  man  grunted.  And 
he  looked  curiously  at  his  mate;  for  he  had 
never  heard  that  sort  of  laugh  before. 

But  Joey  fondled  the  conceit,  and  returned  to 
it  from  time  to  time;  now  aloud,  now  to  himself. 
"All  'cordions:  playin'  any  toon  as  is  ordered, 
blimy.  .  .  .  Are  we  'cordions?  /  don't  b'lieve 
we  're  as  much  as  that  .  .  .  no,  s'elp  me.  We  're 
on'y  the  footlin'  little  keys;  shoved  about  to 
soot  the  toon.  .  .  .  Little  tin  keys,  blimy  .  .  . 


68  WITHOUT  VISIBLE   MEANS. 

footlin'  little  keys.  .  .  .  I  've  bin  played  on 
plenty,  1  'ave.  ..." 

Dave  Burge  listened  with  alarm,  and  tried  to 
talk  of  other  things  But  Joey  rarely  heard  him. 
"  I  've  bin  played  on  plenty,  /  'ave,"  he  persisted. 
"  I  was  played  on  once  by  a  pal :  an'  my  spring 
broke." 

At  nightfall  there  was  more  bad  luck.  They 
were  driven  from  a  likely  barn  by  a  leather- 
gaitered  man  with  a  dog,  and  for  some  distance 
no  dormitory  could  be  found.  Then  it  was  a 
cut  haystack,  with  a  nest  near  the  top  and  steps 
to  reach  it. 

In  the  night  Burge  was  wakened  by  a  clammy 
hand  upon  his  face.  There  was  a  thick  mist. 

"It  's  you,  Dave,  ain't  it?  "  Clayton  was  say- 
ing. "  Good  Gawd,  I  thought  I  'd  lawst  you. 
What  's  all  this  'ere  —  not  the  water  is  it?  — 
not  the  dock?  I'm  soppin'  wet." 

Burge  himself  was  wet  to  the  skin.  He  made 
Joey  lie  down,  and  told  him  to  sleep;  but  a 
coughing  fit  prevented  that.  "  It  was  them 
'cordions  woke  me,"  he  explained  when  it  was 
over. 

So  the  night  put  on  the  shuddering  gray  of 
the  fore-dawn.  And  the  two  tramps  left  their 
perch,  and  betook  them,  shivering  and  stamping, 
to  the  road. 

That  morning  Joey  had  short  fits  of  dizziness 


WITHOUT  VISIBLE  MEANS.  69 

and  faintness.  "It's  my  spring  broke,"  he 
would  say  after  such  an  attack.  "Bloomin' 
little  tin  key  put  out  o'  toon."  And  once  he 
added,  "I'm  up  to  one  toon,  though,  now:  this 
'ere  bloomin'  Dead  March." 

Just  at  the  outskirts  of  a  town,  where  he 
stopped  to  cough  over  a  gate,  a  stout  old  lady, 
walking  out  with  a  shaggy  little  dog,  gave  him 
a  shilling.  Dave  Burge  picked  it  up  as  it 
dropped  from  his  incapable  hand,  and  "Joey, 
'ere  's  a  bob, "  he  said ;  "  a  lady  give  it  you.  You 
come  an'  git  a  drop  o1  beer." 

They  carried  a  twopenny  loaf  into  the  tap- 
room of  a  small  tavern,  and  Dave  had  mild  ale 
himself,  but  saw  that  Joey  was  served  with  stout 
with  a  penn'orth  of  gin  in  it.  Soon  the  gin  and 
stout  reached  Joey's  head,  and  drew  it  to  the 
table.  And  he  slept,  leaving  the  rest  of  the 
shilling  where  it  lay. 

Dave  arose,  and  stuffed  the  last  of  the  two- 
penny loaf  into  his  pocket.  He  took  a  piece  of 
chalk  from  the  bagatelle  board  in  the  corner, 
and  wrote  this  on  the  table: —  "dr.  sir.  for  god 
sake  take  him  to  the  work  House" 

Then  he  gathered  up  the  coppers  where  they 
lay,  and  stepped  quietly  into  the  street. 


TO    BOW    BRIDGE. 


TO   BOW  BRIDGE. 

THE  eleven-five  tram-car  from  Stratford 
started  for  Bow  a  trifle  before  its  time. 
The  conductor  knew  what  he  might  escape  by 
stealing  a  march  on  the  closing  public-houses; 
as  also  what  was  in  store  for  all  the  conductors 
in  his  wake,  till  there  were  no  more  revellers 
left  to  swarm  the  cars.  For  it  was  Saturday 
night,  and  many  a  week's  wages  were  a-knock- 
ing  down;  and  the  publicans  this  side  of  Bow 
Bridge  shut  their  doors  at  eleven  under  Act  of 
Parliament,  whereas  beyond  the  Bridge,  which 
is  the  county  of  London,  the  law  gives  them 
another  hour,  and  a  man  may  drink  many  pots 
therein.  And  for  this,  at  eleven  every  Satur- 
day, there  is  a  great  rush  westward,  a  vast 
migration  over  Lea,  from  all  the  length  of  High 
Street.  From  the  nearer  parts  they  walk,  or  do 
their  best  to  walk;  but  from  further  Stratford, 
by  the  Town  Hall,  the  Church,  and  the  Martyrs' 
Memorial,  they  crowd  the  cars.  For  one  thing, 
it  is  a  long  half-mile,  and  the  week's  work  is 
over.  Also,  the  car  being  swamped,  it  is  odds 


74  TO   BOW   BRIDGE. 

that  a  man  shall  save  his  fare,  since  no  con- 
ductor may  fight  his  way  a  quarter  through  his 
passengers  before  Bow  Bridge,  where  the  ve- 
hicle is  emptied  at  a  rush.  And  that  means 
yet  another  half-pint. 

So  the  eleven-five  car  started  sooner  than  it 
might  have  done.  As  it  was  spattering  with 
rain,  I  boarded  it,  sharing  the  conductor's  for- 
lorn hope,  but  taking  care  to  sit  at  the  extreme 
fore-end  inside.  In  the  broad  street  the  mar- 
ket clamored  and  flared,  its  lights  and  shadows 
flickering  and  fading  about  the  long  churchyard 
and  the  steeple  in  the  midst  thereof;  and  toward 
the  distant  lights,  the  shining  road  sparkled  in 
long  reaches,  like  a  blackguard  river. 

A  gap  fell  here  and  there  among  the  lights 
where  a  publican  put  his  gas  out;  and  at  these 
points  the  crowds  thickened.  A  quiet  mechanic 
came  in,  and  sat  near  a  decent  woman  with 
children,  a  bundle,  a  basket,  and  a  cabbage. 
Thirty  yards  on  the  car  rumbled,  and  suddenly 
its  hinder  end  was  taken  in  a  mass  of  people 
—  howling,  struggling,  and  blaspheming  —  who 
stormed  and  wrangled  in  at  the  door  and  up  the 
stairs.  There  were  lads  and  men  whooping  and 
flushed,  there  were  girls  and  women  screaming 
choruses;  and  in  a  moment  the  seats  were 
packed,  knees  were  taken,  and  there  was  not  an 
inch  of  standing  room.  The  conductor  cried, 


TO   BOW  BRIDGE.  75 

"All  full! "  and  tugged  at  his  bell-strap,  where- 
unto  many  were  hanging  by  the  hand;  but  he 
was  swept  from  his  feet,  and  made  to  push  hard 
for  his  own  place.  And  there  was  no  more 
foothold  on  the  back  platform  nor  the  front,  nor 
any  vacant  step  upon  the  stairway ;  and  the  roof 
was  thronged;  and  the  rest  of  the  crowd  was 
fain  to  waylay  the  next  car. 

This  one  moved  off  slowly,  with  shrieks  and 
howls  that  were  racking  to  the  wits.  From 
divers  quarters  of  the  roof  came  a  bumping 
thunder  as^  of  cellar-flapping  clogs.  Profanity 
was  sluiced  down,  as  it  were  by  pailfuls,  from 
above,  and  was  swilled  back  as  it  were  in  pail- 
fuls from  below.  Blowses  in  feathered  bonnets 
bawled  hilarious  obscenity  at  the  jiggers.  A 
little  maid  with  a  market-basket,  hustled  and 
jostled  and  elbowed  at  the  far  end,  listened 
eagerly  and  laughed  when  she  could  understand ; 
and  the  quiet  mechanic,  whose  knees  had  been 
invaded  by  an  unsteady  young  woman  in  a  crushed 
hat,  tried  to  look  pleased.  My  own  knees  were 
saved  from  capture  by  the  near  neighborhood  of 
an  enormous  female,  seated  partly  on  the  seat 
and  partly  on  myself,  snorting  and  gulping  with 
sleep,  her  head  upon  the  next  man's  shoulder. 
(To  offer  your  seat  to  a  standing  woman  would, 
as  beseems  a  foreign  antic,  have  been  visited  by 
the  ribaldry  of  the  whole  crowd.)  In  the  midst 


76  TO   BOW   BRIDGE. 

of  the  riot  the  decent  woman  sat  silent  and 
indifferent,  her  children  on  and  about  her  knees. 
Further  along,  two  women  ate  fish  with  their 
fingers  and  discoursed  personalities  in  voices 
which  ran  strident  through  the  uproar,  as  the 
odor  of  their  snack  asserted  itself  in  the  general 
fetor.  And  opposite  the  decent  woman  there 
sat  a  bonnetless  drab,  who  said  nothing,  but 
looked  at  the  decent  woman's  children  as  a 
shoeless  brat  looks  at  the  dolls  in  a  toyshop 
window. 

"  So  I  ses  to  'er,  I  ses  "  —  this  from  the  snack- 
sters  —  "I'm  a  respectable  married  woman, 
I  ses.  More  'n  you  can  say,  you  barefaced 
hussey,  I  ses  — "  Then  a  shower  of  curses,  a 
shout,  and  a  roar  of  laughter;  and  the  conduc- 
tor, making  slow  and  laborious  progress  with 
the  fares  nearest  him,  turned  his  head.  A  man 
had  jumped  upon  the  footboard  and  a  passen- 
ger's toes.  A  scuffle  and  a  fight,  and  both  had 
rolled  off  into  the  mire,  and  got  left  behind. 
"Ain't  they  fond  o'  one  another?"  cried  a  girl. 
"They're  a-goin'  for  a  walk  together;"  and 
there  was  a  guffaw.  "  The  silly  bleeders  '11  be 
too  late  for  the  pubs,"  said  a  male  voice;  and 
there  was  another,  for  the  general  understanding 
was  touched. 

Then  —  an  effect  of  sympathy,  perhaps  —  a 
scuffle  broke  out  on  the  roof.  But  this  dis- 


TO   BOW   BRIDGE.  77 

turbed  not  the  insides.  The  conductor  went  on 
his  plaguy  task:  to  save  time,  he  passed  over 
the  one  or  two  that,  asked  now  or  not,  seemed 
likely  to  pay  at  the  journey's  end.  The  snack- 
ing  women  resumed  their  talk,  the  choristers 
their  singing;  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  was 
lost  in  a  babel  of  vacant  ribaldry;  the  enormous 
woman  choked  and  gasped  and  snuggled  lower 
down  upon  her  neighbor's  shoulder;  and  the 
shabby  strumpet  looked  at  the  children. 

A  man  by  the  door  vomited  his  liquor:  where- 
at was  more  hilarity,  and  his  neighbors,  with 
many  yaups,  shoved  further  up  the  middle.  But 
one  of  the  little  ones,  standing  before  her 
mother,  was  pushed  almost  to  falling;  and  the 
harlot,  seeing  her  chance,  snatched  the  child 
upon  her  knee.  The  child  looked  up,  some- 
thing in  wonder,  and  smiled;  and  the  woman 
leered  as  honestly  as  she  might,  saying  a  hoarse 
word  or  two. 

Presently  the  conflict  overhead,  waxing  and 
waning  to  an  accompaniment  of  angry  shouts, 
afforded  another  brief  diversion  to  those  within, 
and  something  persuaded  the  standing  passen- 
gers to  shove  toward  the  door.  -  The  child 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  street-walker's  arms. 
"Jinny!"  cried  the  mother,  reaching  forth  and 
shaking  her.  "Jinny!  wake  up  now  —  you 
mustn't  go  to  sleep."  And  she  pulled  the 


78  TO   BOW   BRIDGE. 

little  thing  from  her  perch  to  where  she  had 
been  standing. 

The  bonnetless  creature  bent  forward,  and, 
in  her  curious  yoice  (like  that  of  one  sick  with 
shouting),  "She  can  set  on  my  knee,  m'm,  if 
she  likes,"  she  said;  "she's  tired." 

The  mother  busied  herself  with  a  jerky  ad- 
justment of  the  child's  hat  and  shawl.  "She 
must  n't  go  to  sleep,"  was  all  she  said,  sharply, 
and  without  looking  up. 

The  hoarse  woman  bent  further  forward,  with 
a  propitiatory  grin.  "'Ow  old  is  she?  .  .  .  I 'd 
like  to  —  give  'er  a  penny. " 

The  mother  answered  nothing;  but  drew  the 
child  close  by  the  side  of  her  knee,  where  a 
younger  one  was  sitting,  and  looked  steadily 
through  the  fore  windows. 

The  hoarse  woman  sat  back,  unquestioning 
and  unresentful,  and  turned  her  eyes  upon  them 
that  were  crowding  over  the  conductor;  for  the 
car  was  rising  over  Bow  Bridge.  Front  and 
back  they  surged  down  from  the  roof,  and  the 
insides  made  for  the  door  as  one  man.  The  big 
woman's  neighbor  rose,  and  let  her  fall  over  on 
the  seat,  whence,  awaking  with  a  loud  grunt  and 
an  incoherent  curse,  she  rolled  after  the  rest. 
The  conductor,  clamant  and  bedevilled,  was 
caught  between  the  two  pell-mells,  and,  demand- 
ing fares  and  gripping  his  satchel,  was  carried 


TO   BOW   BRIDGE.  79 

over  the  footboard  in  the  rush.  The  stramash 
overhead  came  tangled  and  swearing  down  the 
stairs,  gaining  volume  and  force  in  random 
punches  as  it  came ;  and  the  crowd  on  the  pave- 
ment streamed  vocally  toward  a  brightness  at 
the  bridge  foot  —  the  lights  of  the  Bombay 
Grab. 

The  woman  with  the  children  waited  till  the 
footboard  was  clear,  and  then,  carrying  one  child 
and  leading  another  (her  marketings  attached 
about  her  by  indeterminate  means),  she  set  the 
two  youngsters  on  the  pavement,  leaving  the 
third  on  the  step  of  the  car.  The  harlot,  lin- 
gering, lifted  the  child  again  —  lifted  her  rather 
high  —  and  set  her  on  the  path  with  the  others. 
Then  she  walked  away  toward  the  Bombay  Grab. 
A  man  in  a  blue  serge  suit  was  footing  it  down 
the  turning  between  the  public-house  and  the 
bridge  with  drunken  swiftness  and  an  intermit- 
tent stagger;  and,  tightening  her  shawl,  she 
went  in  chase. 

The  quiet  mechanic  stood  and  stretched  him- 
self, and  took  a  corner  seat  near  the  door;  and 
the  tram-car,  quiet  and  vacant,  bumped  on 
westward. 


THAT   BRUTE   SIMMONS. 


THAT   BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

SIMMONS' S  infamous  behavior  toward  his 
wife  is  still  matter  for  profound  wonder- 
ment among  the  neighbors.  The  other  women 
had  all  along  regarded  him  as  a  model  husband, 
and  certainly  Mrs.  Simmons  was  a  most  con- 
scientious wife.  She  toiled  and  slaved  for  that 
man,  as  any  woman  in  the  whole  street  would 
have  maintained,  far  more  than  any  husband 
had  a  right  to  expect.  And  now  this  was  what 
she  got  for  it.  Perhaps  he  had  suddenly  gone 
mad. 

Before  she  married  Simmons,  Mrs.  Simmons 
had  been  the  widowed  Mrs.  Ford.  Ford  had 
got  a  berth  as  donkeyman  on  a  tramp  steamer, 
and  that  steamer  had  gone  down  with  all  hands 
off  the  Cape:  a  judgment,  the  widow  woman 
feared,  for  long  years  of  contumacy  which  had 
culminated  in  the  wickedness  of  taking  to  the 
sea,  and  taking  to  it  as  a  donkeyman  —  an 
immeasurable  fall  for  a  capable  engine-fitter. 
Twelve  years  as  Mrs.  Ford  had  left  her  still 
childless,  and  childless  she  remained  as  Mrs. 
Simmons. 


THAT   BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

SIMMONS' S  infamous  behavior  toward  his 
wife  is  still  matter  for  profound  wonder- 
ment among  the  neighbors.  The  other  women 
had  all  along  regarded  him  as  a  model  husband, 
and  certainly  Mrs.  Simmons  was  a  most  con- 
scientious wife.  She  toiled  and  slaved  for  that 
man,  as  any  woman  in  the  whole  street  would 
have  maintained,  far  more  than  any  husband 
had  a  right  to  expect.  And  now  this  was  what 
she  got  for  it.  Perhaps  he  had  suddenly  gone 
mad. 

Before  she  married  Simmons,  Mrs.  Simmons 
had  been  the  widowed  Mrs.  Ford.  Ford  had 
got  a  berth  as  donkeyman  on  a  tramp  steamer, 
and  that  steamer  had  gone  down  with  all  hands 
off  the  Cape:  a  judgment,  the  widow  woman 
feared,  for  long  years  of  contumacy  which  had 
culminated  in  the  wickedness  of  taking  to  the 
sea,  and  taking  to  it  as  a  donkeyman  —  an 
immeasurable  fall  for  a  capable  engine-fitter. 
Twelve  years  as  Mrs.  Ford  had  left  her  still 
childless,  and  childless  she  remained  as  Mrs. 
Simmons. 


84  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

As  for  Simmons,  he,  it  was  held,  was  fortu- 
nate in  that  capable  wife.  He  was  a  moderately 
good  carpenter  and  joiner,  but  no  man  of  the 
world,  and  he  wanted  one.  Nobody  could  tell 
what  might  not  have  happened  to  Tommy  Sim- 
mons if  there  had  been  no  Mrs.  Simmons  to 
take  care  of  him.  He  was  a  meek  and  quiet 
man,  with  a  boyish  face  and  sparse,  limp  whis- 
kers. He  had  no  vices  (even  his  pipe  departed 
him  after  his  marriage),  and  Mrs.  Simmons  had 
engrafted  on  him  divers  exotic  virtues.  He 
went  solemnly  to  chapel  every  Sunday,  under  a 
tall  hat,  and  put  a  penny  —  one  returned  to  him 
for  the  purpose  out  of  his  week's  wages  —  in 
the  plate.  Then,  Mrs.  Simmons  overseeing,  he 
took  off  his  best  clothes  and  brushed  them  with 
solicitude  and  pains.  On  Saturday  afternoons 
he  cleaned  the  knives,  the  forks,  the  boots,  the 
kettles,  and  the  windows,  patiently  and  con- 
scientiously. On  Tuesday  evenings  he  took 
the  clothes  to  the  mangling.  And  on  Saturday 
nights  he  attended  Mrs.  Simmons  in  her  mar- 
keting, to  carry  the  parcels. 

Mrs.  Simmons's  own  virtues  were  native  and 
numerous.  She  was  a  wonderful  manager. 
Every  penny  of  Tommy's  thirty-six  or  thirty- 
eight  shillings  a  week  was  bestowed  to  the 
greatest  advantage,  and  Tommy  never  ventured 
to  guess  how  much  of  it  she  saved.  Her  clean- 


THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS.  85 

Hness  in  housewifery  was  distracting  to  behold. 
She  met  Simmons  at  the  front  door  whenever 
he  came  home,  and  then  and  there  he  changed 
his  boots  for  slippers,  balancing  himself  pain- 
fully on  alternate  feet  on  the  cold  flags.  This 
was  because  she  scrubbed  the  passage  and  door- 
step turn  about  with  the  wife  of  the  downstairs 
family,  and  because  the  stair-carpet  was  her 
own.  She  vigilantly  supervised  her  husband 
all  through  the  process  of  "cleaning  himself" 
after  work,  so  as  to  come  between  her  walls  and 
the  possibility  of  random  splashes;  and  if,  in 
spite  of  her  diligence,  a  spot  remained  to  tell 
the  tale,  she  was  at  pains  to  impress  the  fact  on 
Simmons's  memory,  and  to  set  forth  at  length 
all  the  circumstances  of  his  ungrateful  selfish- 
ness. In  the  beginning  she  had  always  escorted 
him  to  the  ready-made  clothes  shop,  and  had 
selected  and  paid  for  his  clothes :  for  the  reason 
that  men  are  such  perfect  fools,  and  shopkeepers 
do  as  they  like  with  them.  But  she  presently 
improved  on  that.  She  found  a  man  selling 
cheap  remnants  at  a  street  corner,  and  straight- 
way she  conceived  the  idea  of  making  Simmons's 
clothes  herself.  Decision  was  one  of  her  vir- 
tues, and  a  suit  of  uproarious  check  tweeds  was 
begun  that  afternoon  from  the  pattern  furnished 
by  an  old  one.  More :  it  was  finished  by  Sun- 
day; when  Simmons,  overcome  by  astonishment 


86  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

at  the  feat,  was  indued  in  it,  and  pushed  off  to 
chapel  ere  he  could  recover  his  senses.  The 
things  were  not  altogether  comfortable,  he 
found :  the  trousers  clung  tight  against  his 
shins,  but  hung  loose  behind  his  heels;  and 
when  he  sat,  it  was  on  a  wilderness  of  hard 
folds  and  seams.  Also  his  waistcoat  collar 
tickled  his  nape,  but  his  coat  collar  went  strain- 
ing across  from  shoulder  to  shoulder;  while 
the  main  garment  bagged  generously  below  his 
waist.  Use  made  a  habit  of  his  discomfort,  but 
it  never  reconciled  him  to  the  chaff  of  his  shop- 
mates;  for  as  Mrs.  Simmons  elaborated  succes- 
sive suits,  each  one  modelled  on  the  last,  the 
primal  accidents  of  her  design  developed  into 
principles,  and  grew  even  bolder  and  more  hid- 
eously pronounced.  It  was  vain  for  Simmons 
to  hint  —  as  hint  he  did  —  that  he  shouldn't 
like  her  to  overwork  herself,  tailoring  being 
bad  for  the  eyes,  and  there  was  a  new  tailor's 
in  the  Mile  End  Road,  very  cheap,  where  .  .  . 
"Ho  yus,"  she  retorted,  "you  're  very  consid'rit 
I  dessay  sittin'  there  actin'  a  livin'  lie  before 
your  own  wife  Thomas  Simmons  as  though  I 
could  n't  see  through  you  like  a  book.  A  lot 
you  care  about  overworkin'  me  as  long  as  your 
turn  's  served  throwin'  away  money  like  dirt  in 
the  street  on  a  lot  o'  swindlin'  tailors  an'  me 
workin'  an'  slavin'  'ere  to  save  a  'apenny  an' 


THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS.  8/ 

this  is  my  return  for  it  any  one  'ud  think  you 
could  pick  up  money  in  the  'orseroad  an'  I  b'lieve 
I  'd  be  thought  better  of  if  I  laid  in  bed  all  day 
like  some  would  that  I  do."  So  that  Thomas 
Simmons  avoided  the  subject,  nor  even  mur- 
mured when  she  resolved  to  cut  his  hair. 

So  his  placid  fortune  endured  for  years.  Then 
there  came  a  golden  summer  evening  when  Mrs. 
Simmons  betook  herself  with  a  basket  to  do 
some  small  shopping,  and  Simmons  was  left  at 
home.  He  washed  and  put  away  the  tea-things, 
and  then  he  fell  to  meditating  on  a  new  pair  of 
trousers,  finished  that  day  and  hanging  behind 
the  parlor  door.  There  they  hung,  in  all  their 
decent  innocence  of  shape  in  the  seat,  and  they 
were  shorter  of  leg,  longer  of  waist,  and  wilder 
of  pattern  than  he  had  ever  worn  before.  And 
as  he  looked  on  them  the  small  devil  of  Original 
Sin  awoke  and  clamored  in  his  breast.  He  was 
ashamed  of  it,  of  course,  for  well  he  knew  the 
gratitude  he  owed  his  wife  for  those  same  trou- 
sers, among  other  blessings.  Still,  there  the 
small  devil  was,  and  the  small  devil  was  fertile 
in  base  suggestions,  and  could  not  be  kept  from 
hinting  at  the  new  crop  of  workshop  gibes  that 
would  spring  at  Tommy's  first  public  appear- 
ance in  such  things. 

"Pitch  'em  in  the  dustbin!"  said  the  small 
devil  at  last ;  "  it 's  all  they  're  fit  for. " 


88  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

Simmons  turned  away  in  sheer  horror  of  his 
wicked  self,  and  for  a  moment  thought  of  wash- 
ing the  tea-things  over  again  by  way  of  disci- 
pline. Then  he  made  for  the  back  room,  but 
saw  from  the  landing  that  the  front  door  was 
standing  open,  probably  by  the  fault  of  the 
child  downstairs.  Now  a  front  door  standing 
open  was  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Simmons  would  not 
abide:  it  looked  low.  So  Simmons  went  down, 
that  she  might  not  be  wroth  with  him  for  the 
thing  when  she  came  back;  and,  as  he  shut  the 
door,  he  looked  forth  into  the  street. 

A  man  was  loitering  on  the  pavement,  and 
prying  curiously  about  the  door.  His  face  was 
tanned,  his  hands  were  deep  in  the  pockets  of 
his  unbraced  blue  trousers,  and  well  back  on 
his  head  he  wore  the  high-crowned  peaked  cap 
topped  with  a  knob  of  wool,  which  is  affected 
by  Jack  ashore  about  the  docks.  He  lurched  a 
step  nearer  to  the  door,  and  "Mrs.  Ford  ain't 
in,  is  she?  "  he  said. 

Simmons  stared  at  him  for  a  matter  of  five 
seconds,  and  then  said,  "  Eh  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ford  as  was,  then  —  Simmons  now, 
ain't  it?" 

He  said  this  with  a  furtive  leer  that  Simmons 
neither  liked  nor  understood. 

"No,"  said  Simmons,  "she  ain't  in  now." 

"  You  ain't  her  'usband,  are  ye?  " 


THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS.  89 

"Yus." 

The  man  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
grinned  silently  and  long.  "Blimy,"  he  said  at 
length,  "you  look  the  sort  o'  bloke  she'd  like," 
—  and  with  that  he  grinned  again.  Then,  see- 
ing that  Simmons  made  ready  to  shut  the  door, 
he  put  a  foot  on  the  sill  and  a  hand  against  the 
panel.  "Don't  be  in  a  'urry,  matey,"  he  said, 
"  I  come  'ere  t'ave  a  little  talk  with  you,  man  to 
man,  d'  ye  see?  "  And  he  frowned  fiercely. 

Tommy  Simmons  felt  uncomfortable,  but  the 
door  would  not  shut,  so  he  parleyed.  "Wotjer 
want?  "  he  asked.  "I  dunno  you." 

"Then,  if  you  '11  excuse  the  liberty,  I  '11  inter- 
dooce  meself,  in  a  manner  of  speaking."  He 
touched  his  cap  with  a  bob  of  mock  humility. 
"I'm  Bob  Ford, "  he  said,  "come  back  out  o' 
kingdom-come,  so  to  say.  Me  as  went  down 
with  the  Mooltan  —  safe  dead  five  year  gone.  I 
come  to  see  my  wife." 

During  this  speech  Thomas  Simmons's  jaw 
was  dropping  lower  and  lower.  At  the  end  of 
it  he  poked  his  fingers  up  through  his  hair, 
looked  down  at  the  mat,  then  up  at  the  fanlight, 
then  out  into  the  street,  then  hard  at  his  visitor. 
But  he  found  nothing  to  say. 

"Come  to  see  my  wife,"  the  man  repeated. 
"So  now  we  can  talk  it  over  —  as  man  to  man." 

Simmons  slowly  shut  his  mouth,  and  led  the 


90  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

way  upstairs  mechanically,  his  fingers  still  in 
his  hair.  A  sense  of  the  state  of  affairs  sank 
gradually  into  his  brain,  and  the  small  devil 
woke  again.  Suppose  this  man  was  Ford  ? 
Suppose  he  did  claim  his  wife?  Would  it  be 
a  knock-down  blow?  Would  it  hit  him  out?  — 
or  not?  He  thought  of  the  trousers,  the  tea- 
things,  the  mangling,  the  knives,  the  kettles, 
and  the  windows ;  and  he  thought  of  them  in  the 
way  of  a  backslider. 

On  the  landing  Ford  clutched  at  his  arm,  and 
asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper:  "'Ow  long  'fore 
she  's  back  ?  " 

"'Bout  a  hour,  I  expect,"  Simmons  replied, 
having  first  of  all  repeated  the  question  in  his 
own  mind.  And  then  he  opened  the  parlor 
door. 

"Ah,"  said  Ford,  looking  about  him,  "you've 
bin  pretty  comf  table.  Them  chairs  an'  things" 
—  jerking  his  pipe  toward  them  —  "was  hers  — 
mine  that  is  to  say,  speaking  straight,  and  man 
to  man."  He  sat  down,  puffing  meditatively 
at  his  pipe,  and  presently:  "Well,"  he  con- 
tinued, "'ere  I  am  agin,  ol'  Bob  Ford  dead  an' 
done  for  —  gawn  down  in  the  Mooltan.  On'y 
I  ain't  done  for,  see  ?  "  —  and  he  pointed  the 
stem  of  his  pipe  at  Simmons's  waistcoat,  — "I 
ain't  done  for,  'cause  why?  Cons'kence  o'  bein' 
picked  up  by  a  ol'  German  sailin'-'utch  an'  took 


THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS.  91 

to  'Frisco  'fore  the  mast.  I  've  'ad  a  few  years 
o'  knockin'  about  since  then,  an'  now  "  —  look- 
ing hard  at  Simmons  —  "  I  've  come  back  to  see 
my  wife." 

"She  —  she  don't  like  smoke  in  'ere,"  said 
Simmons,  as  it  were  at  random. 

"No,  I  bet  she  don't,"  Ford  answered,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  holding  it  low  in 
his  hand.  "I  know  'Anner.  'Ow  d'you  find 
'er?  Do  she  make  ye  clean  the  winders?  " 

"Well,"  Simmons  admitted  uneasily,  "I  —  I 
do  'elp  'er  sometimes,  o'  course." 

"Ah!  An'  the  knives  too,  I  bet,  an'  the 
bloomin' kittles.  I  know.  Wy  "  —  he  rose  and 
bent  to  look  behind  Simmons's  head — "s'elp 
me,  I  b'lieve  she  cuts  yer  'air!  Well,  I'm 
damned!  Jes'  wot  she  would  do,  too." 

He  inspected  the  blushing  Simmons  from 
divers  points  of  vantage.  Then  he  lifted  a 
leg  of  the  trousers  hanging  behind  the  door. 
"I'd  bet  a  trifle,"  he  said,  "she  made  these 
'ere  trucks.  Nobody  else  'ud  do  'em  like  that. 
Damme  —  they're  wuss'n  wot  you  're  got  on." 

The  small  devil  began  to  have  the  argument 
all  its  own  way.  If  this  man  took  his  wife  back 
perhaps  he  'd  have  to  wear  those  trousers. 

"Ah!"  Ford  pursued,  "she  ain't  got  no 
milder.  An'  my  davy,  wot  a  jore!" 

Simmons  began  to  feel  that  this  was  no  longer 


Q2  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

his  business.  Plainly,  'Anner  was  this  other 
man's  wife,  and  he  was  bound  in  honor  to 
acknowledge  the  fact.  The  small  devil  put  it 
to  him  as  a  matter  of  duty. 

"Well,"  said  Ford  suddenly,  "time's  short 
an'  this  ain't  business.  I  won't  be  'ard  on  you, 
matey.  I  ought  prop'ly  to  stand  on  my  rights, 
but  seein'  as  you  're  a  well-meanin'  young  man, 
so  to  speak,  an'  all  settled  an'  a-livin'  'ere  quiet 
an'  matrimonual,  I  '11  "  —  this  with  a  burst  of 
generosity  —  "damme,  yus,  I'll  compound  the 
felony,  an'  take  me  'ook.  Come,  I  '11  name  a 
figure,  as  man  to  man,  fust  an'  last,  no  less  an' 
no  more.  Five  pound  does  it." 

Simmons  had  n't  five  pounds  —  he  had  n't  even 
five  pence  —  and  he  said  so.  "An'  I  wouldn't 
think  for  to  come  between  a  man  an'  'is  wife," 
he  added,  "not  on  no  account.  It  may  be  rough 
on  me,  but  it  's  a  dooty.  /'//  'ook  it." 

"No,"  said  Ford  hastily,  clutching  Simmons 
by  the  arm,  "don't  do  that.  I'll  make  it  a  bit 
cheaper.  Say  three  quid  —  come,  that 's  reason- 
able, ain't  it?  Three  quid  ain't  much  compen- 
sation for  me  goin'  away  forever  —  where  the 
stormy  winds  do  blow,  so  to  say  —  an'  never  as 
much  as  seein'  me  own  wife  agin  for  better  nor 
wuss.  Between  man  an'  man  now  —  three  quid; 
an'  I  '11  shunt.  That 's  fair,  ain't  it?  " 

"Of  course  it's  fair,"  Simmons  replied  effu- 


THAT   BRUTE   SIMMONS.  93 

sively.  "It's  more 'n  fair:  it's  noble  —  down- 
right noble,  /  call  it.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  take 
a  mean  advantage  o'  your  good-'artedness,  Mr. 
Ford.  She 's  your  wife,  an'  I  ought  n't  to  'a' 
come  between  you.  I  apologize.  You  stop  an' 
'ave  yer  proper  rights.  It  's  me  as  ought  to 
shunt,  an'  I  will."  And  he  made-a  step  toward 
the  door. 

"'Old  on,"  quoth  Ford,  and  got  between 
Simmons  and  the  door;  "don't  do  things  rash. 
Look  wot  a  loss  it  '11  be  to  you  with  no  'ome  to 
go  to,  an'  nobody  to  look  after  ye,  an'  all  that. 
It  '11  be  dreadful.  Say  a  couple  —  there,  we 
won't  quarrel,  jest  a  single  quid,  between  man 
an'  man,  an'  I  '11  stand  a  pot  out  o'  the  money. 
You  can  easy  raise  a  quid  —  the  clock  'ud  pretty 
nigh  do  it.  A  quid  does  it;  an'  I'll  —  " 

There  was  a  loud  double-knock  at  the  front 
door.  In  the  East  End  a  double-knock  is  always 
for  the  upstairs  lodgers. 

"Go's  that?  "asked  Bob  Ford  apprehensively. 

"I'll  see,"  said  Thomas  Simmons  in  reply, 
and  he  made  a  rush  for  the  staircase. 

Bob  Ford  heard  him  open  the  front  door. 
Then  he  went  to  the  window,  and,  just  below 
him,  he  saw  the  crown  of  a  bonnet.  It  vanished, 
and  borne  to  him  from  within  the  door  there  fell 
upon  his  ear  the  sound  of  a  well-remembered 
female  voice. 


94  THAT  BRUTE   SIMMONS. 

"  Where  ye  goin'  now  with  no  'at  ?  "  asked  the 
voice  sharply. 

"  Awright,  ' Anner  —  there  's  —  there 's  some- 
body upstairs  to  see  you,"  Simmons  answered. 
And,  as  Bob  Ford  could  see,  a  man  went  scut- 
tling down  the  street  in  the  gathering  dusk. 
And  behold,  it  was  Thomas  Simmons. 

Ford  reached  the  landing  in  three  strides. 
His  wife  was  still  at  the  front  door,  staring 
after  Simmons.  He  flung  into  the  back  room, 
threw  open  the  window,  dropped  from  the  wash- 
house  roof  into  the  back-yard,  scrambled  desper- 
ately over  the  fence,  and  disappeared  into  the 
gloom.  He  was  seen  by  no  living  soul.  And 
that  is  why  Simmons's  base  desertion  —  under 
his  wife's  very  eyes,  too  —  is  still  an  astonish- 
ment to  the  neighbors. 


BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 


BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 

THE  street  was  the  common  East  End  street 
—  two  parallels  of  brick  pierced  with  win- 
dows and  doors.  But  at  the  end  of  one,  where 
the  builder  had  found  a  remnant  of  land  too 
small  for  another  six-roomer,  there  stood  an  odd 
box  of  a  cottage,  with  three  rooms  and  a  wash- 
house.  It  had  a  green  door  with  a  well-blacked 
knocker  round  the  corner;  and  in  the  lower 
window  in  front  stood  a  "  shade  of  fruit "  —  a 
cone  of  waxen  grapes  and  apples  under  a  glass 
cover. 

Although  the  house  was  smaller  than  the 
others,  and  was  built  upon  a  remnant,  it  was 
always  a  house  of  some  consideration.  In  a 
street  like  this  mere  independence  of  pattern 
gives  distinction.  And  a  house  inhabited  by 
one  sole  family  makes  a  figure  among  houses 
inhabited  by  two  or  more,  even  though  it  be 
the  smallest  of  all.  And  here  the  seal  of 
respectability  was  set  by  the  shade  of  fruit  —  a 
sign  accepted  in  those  parts.  Now,  when  people 
keep  a  house  to  themselves,  and  keep  it  clean ; 

7 


98  BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 

when  they  neither  stand  at  the  doors  nor  gossip 
across  back-fences;  when,  moreover,  they  have 
a  well-dusted  shade  of  fruit  in  the  front  win- 
dow; and,  especially,  when  they  are  two  women 
who  tell  nobody  their  business :  they  are  known 
at  once  for  well-to-do,  and  are  regarded  with  the 
admixture  of  spite  and  respect  that  is  proper  to 
the  circumstances.  They  are  also  watched. 

Still,  the  neighbors  knew  the  history  of  the 
Perkinses,  mother  and  daughter,  in  its  main 
features,  with  little  disagreement :  having  told 
it  to  each  other,  filling  in  the  details  when 
occasion  seemed  to  serve.  Perkins,  ere  he  died, 
had  been  a  shipwright;  and  this  was  when  the 
shipwrights  were  the  aristocracy  of  the  work- 
shops, and  he  that  worked  more  than  three  or 
four  days  a  week  was  counted  a  mean  slave :  it 
was  long  (in  fact)  before  depression,  strikes, 
iron  plates,  and  collective  blindness  had  driven 
shipbuilding  to  the  Clyde.  Perkins  had  labored 
no  harder  than  his  fellows,  had  married  a  trades- 
man's daughter,  and  had  spent  his  money  with 
freedom;  and  some  while  after  his  death  his 
widow  and  daughter  came  to  live  in  the  small 
house,  and  kept  a  school  for  tradesmen's  little 
girls  in  a  back  room  over  the  wash-house.  But 
as  the  School  Board  waxed  in  power,  and  the 
tradesmen's  pride  in  regard  thereunto  waned, 
the  attendance,  never  large,  came  down  to  twos 


BEHIND   THE    SHADE.  99 

and  threes.  Then  Mrs.  Perkins  met  with  her 
accident.  A  dweller  in  Stidder's  Rents  over- 
took her  one  night,  and,  having  vigorously 
punched  her  in  the  face  and  the  breast,  kicked 
her  and  jumped  on  her  for  five  minutes  as  she 
lay  on  the  pavement.  (In  the  dark,  it  after- 
wards appeared,  he  had  mistaken  her  for  his 
mother.)  The  one  distinct  opinion  the  adven- 
ture bred  in  the  street  was  Mrs.  Webster's,  the 
Little  Bethelite,  who  considered  it  a  judgment 
for  sinful  pride  —  for  Mrs.  Perkins  had  been  a 
Church-goer.  But  the  neighbors  never  saw  Mrs. 
Perkins  again.  The  doctor  left  his  patient  "as 
well  as  she  ever  would  be,"  but  bedridden  and 
helpless.  Her  daughter  was  a  scraggy,  sharp- 
faced  woman  of  thirty  or  so,  whose  black  dress 
hung  from  her  hips  as  from  a  wooden  frame; 
and  some  people  got  into  the  way  of  calling  her 
Mrs.  Perkins,  seeing  no  other  thus  to  honor. 
And  meantime  the  school  had  ceased,  although 
Miss  Perkins  essayed  a  revival,  and  joined  a 
dissenting  chapel  to  that  end. 

Then,  one  day,  a  card  appeared  in  the  win- 
dow, over  the  shade  of  fruit,  with  the  legend 
"Pianoforte  Lessons."  It  was  not  approved  by 
the  street.  It  was  a  standing  advertisement  of 
the  fact  that  the  Perkinses  had  a  piano,  which 
others  had  not.  It  also  revealed  a  grasping 
spirit  on  the  part  of  people  able  to  keep  a  house 


100  BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 

to  themselves,  with  red  curtains  and  a  shade  of 
fruit  in  the  parlor  window;  who,  moreover,  had 
been  able  to  give  up  keeping  a  school  because 
of  ill-health.  The  pianoforte  lessons  were  eight- 
and-sixpence  a  quarter,  two  a  week.  Nobody 
was  ever  known  to  take  them  but  the  relieving 
officer's  daughter,  and  she  paid  sixpence  a  les- 
son, to  see  how  she  got  on,  and  left  off  in  three 
weeks.  The  card  stayed  in  the  window  a  fort- 
night longer,  and  none  of  the  neighbors  saw  the 
cart  that  came  in  the  night  and  took  away  the 
old  cabinet  piano  with  the  channelled  keys,  that 
had  been  fourth-hand  when  Perkins  bought  it 
twenty  years  ago.  Mrs.  Clark,  the  widow  who 
sewed  far  into  the  night,  may  possibly  have 
heard  a  noise  and  looked;  but  she  said  nothing 
if  she  did.  There  was  no  card  in  the  window 
next  morning,  but  the  shade  of  fruit  stood  primly 
respectable  as  ever.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
a  little  closer  across,  for  some  of  the  children 
playing  in  the  street  were  used  to  flatten  their 
faces  against  the  lower  panes,  and  to  discuss 
the  piano,  the  stuff-bottomed  chairs,  the  anti- 
macassars, the  mantelpiece  ornaments,  and  the 
loo  table  with  the  family  Bible  and  the  album 
on  it. 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  the  Perkinses 
altogether  ceased  from  shopping  —  ceased,  at 
any  rate,  in  that  neighborhood.  Trade  with 


BEHIND   THE   SHADE.  IOI 

them  had  already  been  dwindling,  and  it  was 
said  that  Miss  Perkins  was,  getting  stingier  than 
her  mother  —  who  had  beea"  stingy  .enough;  her- 
self. Indeed,  the  Perkins  .demeanor  b-egan  t<? 
change  for  the  worse,'  to  be.  significant  -of: .'a* 
miserly  retirement  and  an  offensive  alienation 
from  the  rest  of  the  street.  One  day  the  deacon 
called,  as  was  his  practice  now  and  then;  but, 
being  invited  no  further  than  the  doorstep,  he 
went  away  in  dudgeon,  and  did  not  return. 
Nor,  indeed,  was  Miss  Perkins  seen  again  at 
chapel. 

Then  there  was  a  discovery.  The  spare  figure 
of  Miss  Perkins  was  seldom  seen  in  the  streets, 
and  then  almost  always  at  night;  but  on  these 
occasions  she  was  observed  to  carry  parcels,  of 
varying  wrappings  and  shapes.  Once,  in  broad 
daylight,  with  a  package  in  newspaper,  she 
made  such  haste  past  a  shop-window  where  stood 
Mrs.  Webster  and  Mrs.  Jones,  that  she  tripped 
on  the  broken  sole  of  one  shoe,  and  fell  head- 
long. The  newspaper  broke  away  from  its  pins, 
and  although  the  woman  reached  and  recovered 
her  parcel  before  she  rose,  it  was  plain  to  see 
that  it  was  made  up  of  cheap  shirts,  cut  out 
ready  for  the  stitching.  The  street  had  the 
news  the  same  hour,  and  it  was  generally  held 
that  such  a  taking  of  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths 
of  them  that  wanted  it  by  them  that  had  plenty 


IO2  BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 

was  a  scandal  and  a  shame,  and  ought  to  be  put 
a  stop,, to.     An4  , Mrs. t  Webster,  foremost  in  the 
setting  right"  of' -things,   undertook  to   find  out, 
y/hence  the  \vo;rk  tcame,  and  to  say  a  few  plain 
words  m  the  'rigtit  quarter. 

All  this  while  nobody  watched  closely  enough 
to  note  that  the  parcels  brought  in  were  fewer 
than  the  parcels  taken  out.  Even  a  hand-truck, 
late  one  evening,  went  unremarked:  the  door 
being  round  the  corner,  and  most  people  within. 
One  morning,  though,  Miss  Perkins,  her  best 
foot  foremost,  was  venturing  along  a  near  street 
with  an  outgoing  parcel  —  large  and  triangular 
and  wrapped  in  white  drugget  —  when  the  re- 
lieving officer  turned  the  corner  across  the  way. 

The  relieving  officer  was  a  man  in  whose 
system  of  etiquette  the  Perkinses  had  caused 
some  little  disturbance.  His  ordinary  female 
acquaintances  (not,  of  course,  professional)  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  recognizing  by  a  gracious 
nod.  When  he  met  the  minister's  wife  he 
lifted  his  hat,  instantly  assuming  an  intense 
frown,  in  the  event  of  irreverent  observation. 
Now  he  quite  felt  that  the  Perkinses  were  en- 
titled to  some  advance  upon  the  nod,  although 
it  would  be  absurd  to  raise  them  to  a  level  with 
the  minister's  wife.  So  he  had  long  since  es- 
tablished a  compromise:  he  closed  his  finger 
and  thumb  upon  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  let  his 


BEHIND   THE   SHADE.  IO3 

hand  fall  forthwith.  Preparing  now  to  accom- 
plish this  salute,  he  was  astounded  to  see  that 
Miss  Perkins,  as  soon  as  she  was  aware  of  his 
approach,  turned  her  face,  which .  was  rather 
flushed,  away  from  him,  and  went  hurrying 
onward,  looking  at  the  wall  on  her  side  of  the 
street.  The  relieving  officer,  checking  his  hand 
on  its  way  to  his  hat,  stopped  and  looked  after 
her  as  she  turned  the  corner,  hugging  her  parcel 
on  the  side  next  the  wall.  Then  he  shouldered 
his  umbrella  and  pursued  his  way,  holding  his 
head  high,  and  staring  fiercely  straight  before 
him ;  for  a  relieving  officer  is  not  used  to  being 
cut. 

It  was  a  little  after  this  that  Mr.  Crouch,  the 
landlord,  called.  He  had  not  been  calling  reg- 
ularly, because  of  late  Miss  Perkins  had  left  her 
five  shillings  of  rent  with  Mrs.  Crouch  every 
Saturday  evening.  He  noted  with  satisfaction 
the  whitened  sills  and  the  shade  of  fruit,  behind 
which  the  curtains  were  now  drawn  close  and 
pinned  together.  He  turned  the  corner  and 
lifted  the  bright  knocker.  Miss  Perkins  half 
opened  the  door,  stood  in  the  opening,  and 
began  to  speak. 

His  jaw  dropped.  "Beg  pardon  —  forgot 
something.  Won't  wait  —  call  next  week  —  do 
just  as  well ; "  and  he  hurried  round  the  corner 
and  down  the  street,  puffing  and  blowing  and 


IO4  BEHIND  THE   SHADE. 

staring.  "Why  the  woman  frightened  me,"  he 
afterward  explained  to  Mrs.  Crouch.  "There's 
something  wrong  with  her  eyes,  and  she  looked 
like  a  corpse.  The  rent  was  n't  ready  —  I  could 
see  that  before  she  spoke;  so  I  cleared  out." 

"P'r'aps  something's  happened  to  the  old 
lady,"  suggested  Mrs.  Crouch.  "Anyhow,  I 
should  think  the  rent  'ud  be  all  right."  And 
he  thought  it  would. 

Nobody  saw  the  Perkinses  that  week.  The 
shade  of  fruit  stood  in  its  old  place,  but  was 
thought  not  to  have  been  dusted  after  Tuesday. 

Certainly  the  sills  and  the  doorstep  were 
neglected.  Friday,  Saturday,  and  Sunday  were 
swallowed  up  in  a  choking  brown  fog,  wherein 
men  lost  their  bearings,  and  fell  into  docks, 
and  stepped  over  embankment  edges.  It  was  as 
though  a  great  blot  had  fallen,  and  had  oblit- 
erated three  days  from  the  calendar.  It  cleared 
on  Monday  morning,  and,  just  as  the  women  in 
the  street  were  sweeping  their  steps,  Mr.  Crouch 
was  seen  at  the  green  door.  He  lifted  the 
knocker,  dull  and  sticky  now  with  the  foul 
vapor,  and  knocked  a  gentle  rat-tat.  There  was 
no  answer.  He  knocked  again,  a  little  louder, 
and  waited,  listening.  But  there  was  neither 
voice  nor  movement  within.  He  gave  three 
heavy  knocks,  and  then  came  round  to  the  front 
window.  There  was  the  shade  of  fruit,  the  glass 


BEHIND   THE   SHADE.  105 

a  little  duller  on  the  top,  the  curtains  pinned 
close  about  it,  and  nothing  to  see  beyond  them. 
He  tapped  at  the  window  with  his  knuckles, 
and  backed  into  the  roadway  to  look  at  the  one 
above.  This  was  a  window  with  a  striped  hoi- 
land  blind  and  a  short  net  curtain;  but  never  a 
face  was  there. 

The  sweepers  stopped  to  look,  and  one  from 
opposite  came  and  reported  that  she  had  seen 
nothing  of  Miss  Perkins  for  a  week,  and  that 
certainly  nobody  had  left  the  house  that  morn- 
ing. And  Mr.  Crouch  grew  excited,  and  bel- 
lowed through  the  keyhole. 

In  the  end  they  opened  the  sash-fastening 
with  a  knife,  moved  the  shade  of  fruit,  and  got 
in.  The  room  was  bare  and  empty,  and  their 
steps  and  voices  resounded  as  those  of  people 
in  an  unfurnished  house.  The  wash-house  was 
vacant,  but  it  was  clean,  and  there  was  a  little 
net  curtain  in  the  window.  The  short  passage 
and  the  stairs  were  bare  boards.  In  the  back 
room  by  the  stair-head  was  a  drawn  window- 
blind,  and  that  was  all.  In  the  front  room  with 
the  striped  blind  and  the  short  curtain  there 
was  a  bed  of  rags  and  old  newspapers ;  also  a 
wooden  box;  and  on  each  of  these  was  a  dead 
woman. 

Both  deaths,  the  doctor  found,  were  from  syn- 
cope, the  result  of  inanition;  and  the  better- 


106  BEHIND   THE   SHADE. 

nourished  woman  —  she  on  the  bed  —  had  died 
the  sooner;  perhaps  by  a  day  or  two.  The  other 
case  was  rather  curious;  it  exhibited  a  degree  of 
shrinkage  in  the  digestive  organs  unprecedented 
in  his  experience.  After  the  inquest  the  street 
had  an  evening's  fame :  for  the  papers  printed 
coarse  drawings  of  the  house,  and  in  leaderettes 
demanded  the  abolition  of  something.  Then  it 
became  its  wonted  self.  And  it  was  doubted  if 
the  waxen  apples  and  the  curtains  fetched  enough 
to  pay  Mr.  Crouch  his  fortnight's  rent. 


THREE   ROUNDS. 


THREE   ROUNDS. 

AT  six  o'clock  the  back  streets  were  dank 
and  black;  but  once  in  the  Bethnal  Green 
Road,  blots  and  flares  of  gas  and  naphtha  shook 
and  flickered  till  every  slimy  cobble  in  the  cart- 
way  was  silver-tipped.  Neddy  Milton  was  not 
quite  fighting-fit.  A  day's  questing  for  an  odd 
job  had  left  him  weary  in  the  feet;  and  a  lad 
of  eighteen  cannot  comfortably  go  unfed  from 
breakfast  to  night-fall.  But  box  he  must,  for 
the  shilling  was  irrecoverable,  and  so  costly  a 
chance  must  not  be  thrown  away.  It  was  by  a 
bout  with  the  gloves  that  he  looked  to  mend  his 
fortunes.  That  was  his  only  avenue  of  advance- 
ment. He  could  read  and  write  quite  decently, 
and  in  the  beginning  might  even  have  been  an 
office-boy,  if  only  the  widow,  his  mother,  had 
been  able  to  give  him  a  good  send-off  in  the 
matter  of  clothes.  Also,  he  had  had  one  chance 
of  picking  up  a  trade,  but  the  firm  already  em- 
ployed as  many  boys  as  the  union  was  disposed 
to  allow.  So  Neddy  had  to  go,  and  pick  up 
such  stray  jobs  as  he  might. 


1 10  THREE   ROUNDS. 

It  had  been  a  bad  day,  without  a  doubt. 
Things  were  bad  generally.  It  was  nearly  a 
fortnight  since  Ned  had  lost  his  last  job,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  other  in  the  world.  His 
mother  had  had  no  slop-waistcoat  finishing  to  do 
for  three  or  four  days,  and  he  distinctly  remem- 
bered that  rather  less  than  half  a  loaf  was  left 
after  breakfast ;  so  that  it  would  never  do  to  go 
home,  for  at  such  a  time  the  old  woman  had  a 
trick  of  pretending  not  to  be  hungry,  and  of 
starving  herself.  He  almost  wished  that  shil- 
ling of  entrance-money  back  in  his  pocket. 
There  is  a  deal  of  stuff  to  be  bought  for  a  shil- 
ling: fried  fish,  for  instance,  whereof  the  aromas, 
warm  and  rank,  met  him  thrice  in  a  hundred 
yards,  and  the  frizzle,  loud  or  faint,  sang  in  his 
ears  all  along  the  Bethnal  Green  Road.  His 
shilling  had  been  paid  over  but  two  days  be- 
fore the  last  job  gave  out,  and  it  would  be  use- 
ful now.  Still,  the  investment  might  turn  out 
a  gold  mine.  Luck  must  change.  Meanwhile, 
as  to  being  hungry  —  well,  there  was  always 
another  hole  in  the  belt ! 

The  landlord  of  the  Prince  Regent  public- 
house  had  a  large  room  behind  his  premises, 
which,  being  moved  by  considerations  of  sport 
and  profit  in  doubtful  proportions,  he  devoted 
two  nights  a  week  to  the  uses  of  the  Regent 
Boxing  Club.  Here  Neddy  Milton,  through  a 


THREE   ROUNDS.  Ill 

long  baptism  of  pummellings,  had  learned  the 
trick  of  a  straight  lead,  a  quick  counter,  and  a 
timely  duck;  and  here,  in  the  nine-stone  com- 
petition to  open  this  very  night,  he  might  per- 
chance punch  wide  the  gates  of  Fortune.  For 
some  sporting  publican,  or  discriminating  book- 
maker from  Bow,  might  see  and  approve  his 
sparring,  and  start  him  fairly,  with  money  be- 
hind him  —  a  professional.  That  would  mean  a 
match  in  six  or  eight  weeks'  time,  with  good  liv- 
ing in  the  mean  while:  a  match  that  would  have 
to  be  won,  of  course.  And  after  that  .  .  .  ! 

Twice  before  he  had  boxed  in  a  competition. 
Once  he  won  his  bout  in  the  first  round,  and 
was  beaten  in  the  second ;  and  once  he  was 
beaten  in  the  first,  but  that  was  by  the  final 
winner,  Tab  Rosser,  who  was  now  matched  for 
a  hundred  a  side,  sparred  exhibition  bouts  up 
west,  wore  a  light  Newmarket  coat,  and  could 
stand  whiskey  and  soda  with  anybody.  To  be 
"taken  up"  on  the  strength  of  these  early  per- 
formances was  more  than  he  could  reasonably 
expect.  There  might  be  luck  in  the  third  trial; 
but  he  would  like  to  feel  a  little  fitter.  Break- 
fast (what  there  was  of  it)  had  been  ten  hours 
ago,  and  since  there  had  been  but  a  half-pint  of 
four-ale.  It  was  the  treat  of  a  well-meaning 
friend,  but  it  lay  cold  on  the  stomach  for  want 
of  solid  company. 


112  THREE   ROUNDS. 

Turning  into  Cambridge  Road,  he  crossed, 
and  went  on  among  the  by-streets  leading  toward 
Globe  Road.  Now  and  again  a  slight  aspersion 
of  fine  rain  came  down  the  gusts,  and  further 
damped  his  cap  and  shoulders  and  the  ragged 
hair  that  hung  over  his  collar.  Also  a  cold  spot 
under  one  foot  gave  him  fears  of  a  hole  in  his 
boot-sole  as  he  tramped  in  the  chilly  mud. 

In  the  Prince  Regent  there  were  many  at  the 
bar,  and  the  most  of  them  knew  Neddy. 

"  Wayo,  Ned,"  said  one  lad  with  a  pitted  face, 
"you  don't  look  much  of  a  bleed'n'  champion. 
'Ave  a  drop  o'  beer." 

Ned  took  a  sparing  pull  at  the  pot,  and  wiped 
his  mouth  on  his  sleeve.  A  large  man  behind 
him  guffawed,  and  Neddy  reddened  high.  He 
had  heard  the  joke.  The  man  himself  was  one 
of  the  very  backers  that  might  make  one's  for- 
tune, and  the  man's  companion  thought  it  would 
be  unsafe  to  back  Neddy  to  fight  anything  but 
a  beefsteak. 

"You're  drawed  with  Patsy  Beard,"  one  of 
Ned's  friends  informed  him.  "You'll  'ave  to 
buck  up." 

This  was  bad.  Patsy  Beard,  on  known  form, 
stood  best  chance  of  winning  the  competition, 
and  to  have  to  meet  him  at  first  set-off  was  ill 
luck,  and  no  mistake.  He  was  a  thickset  little 


THREE   ROUNDS.  113 

butcher,  and  there  was  just  the  ghost  of  a  hope 
that  he  might  be  found  to  be  a  bit  over  the 
weight. 

A  lad  by  the  bar  looked  inquiringly  in  Ned's 
face  and  then  came  toward  him,  shouldering 
him  quietly  out  of  the  group.  It  was  Sam 
Young,  whom  Neddy  had  beaten  in  an  earlier 
competition.  "'Ungry,  Neddy?"  he  asked,  in 
a  corner. 

It  was  with  a  shamed  face  that  Neddy  con- 
fessed; for  among  those  in  peril  of  hunger  it  is 
disgraceful  to  be  hungry.  Sam  unpocketed  a 
greasy  paper,  enveloping  a  pallid  sausage-roll. 
"'Ave  'alf  o'  this,"  he  said.  It  was  a  heavy 
and  a  clammy  thing,  but  Ned  took  it,  furtively 
swallowed  a  large  piece,  and  returned  the  rest 
with  sheepish  thanks.  He  did  not  turn  again 
toward  the  others,  but  went  through  to  the  room 
where  the  ring  was  pitched. 

The  proceedings  began.  First  there  were 
exhibition  bouts,  to  play  in  the  company. 
Neddy  fidgeted.  Why  couldn't  they  begin  the 
competition  at  once?  When  they  did,  his  bout 
would  be  number  five.  That  would  mean  at 
least  an  hour  of  waiting;  and  the  longer  he 
waited  the  less  fit  he  would  feel. 

In  time  the  exhibition  sparring  was  ended, 
and  the  real  business  began.  He  watched  the 
early  bouts  feverishly,  feeling  unaccountably 

8 


114  THREE   ROUNDS. 

anxious.  The  lads  looked  strong  and  healthy. 
Patsy  Beard  was  as  strong  as  any  of  them,  and 
heavy.  Could  he  stand  it?  This  excited  ner- 
vousness was  new  and  difficult  to  understand. 
He  had  never  felt  like  it  before.  He  was  al- 
most trembling;  and  that  lump  of  sausage-roll 
had  stuck  half-way,  and  made  breathing  painful 
work.  Patsy  Beard  was  at  the  opposite  corner, 
surrounded  by  admirers.  He  was  red-faced, 
well-fed,  fleshy,  and  confident.  His  short  hair 
clung  shinily  about  his  bullet  head.  Neddy 
noted  a  small  piece  of  court-plaster  at  the  side 
of  his  nose.  Plainly  there  was  a  tender  spot, 
and  it  must  be  gone  for,  be  it  cut,  or  scratch, 
or  only  pimple.  On  the  left  side,  too,  quite 
handy.  Come,  there  was  some  comfort  in  that. 

He  fell  to  watching  the  bout.  It  was  a  hard 
fight,  and  both  the  lads  were  swinging  the  right 
again  and  again  for  a  knock-out.  But  the  pace 
was  too  hot,  and  they  were  soon  breathing  like 
men  about  to  sneeze,  wearily  pawing  at  each 
other,  while  their  heads  hung  forward.  Some- 
body jogged  him  in  the  back,  and  he  found  he 
must  get  ready.  His  dressing  was  simple. 
An  ill-conditioned  old  pair  of  rubber  gymna- 
sium shoes  replaced  his  equally  ill-conditioned 
bluchers,  and  a  cotton  singlet  his  shirt;  but 
his  baggy  corduroys,  ragged  at  the  ankles  and 
doubtful  at  the  seat,  remained. 


THREE  ROUNDS.  1 15 

Presently  the  last  pair  of  boxers  was  brought 
into  the  dressing-room,  and  one  of  the  seconds, 
a  battered  old  pug  with  one  eye,  at  once  seized 
Neddy.  "Come  along,  young  'un,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  your  bloke.  Got  no  flannels?  Awright. 
Jump  on  the  scales." 

There  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  weight.  He 
had  scaled  at  eight  stone  thirteen;  now  it  was 
eight  stone  bare.  Patsy  Beard,  on  the  other 
hand,  weighed  the  full  nine,  without  an  ounce 
to  spare. 

"You're  givin"im  a  stone,"  said  the  old  pug; 
"all  the  more  credit  'idin'  of  'im.  'Ere,  let's 
shove  'em  on.  Feel  'em."  He  grinned  and 
blinked  his  solitary  eye  as  he  pulled  on  Neddy's 
hand  one  of  a  very  black  and  long-worn  pair 
of  boxing-gloves.  They  were  soft  and  flaccid ; 
Neddy's  heart  warmed  toward  the  one-eyed  man, 
for  well  he  knew  from  many  knocks  that  the 
softer  the  glove  the  harder  the  fist  feels  through 
it.  "  Sawftest  pair  in  the  place,  s'elp  me," 
grunted  the  second,  with  one  glove  hanging 
from  his  teeth.  "  My  lad  'ad  'em  last  time. 
Come  on." 

He  snatched  a  towel  and  a  bottle  of  water, 
and  hurried  Neddy  from  the  dressing-room  to 
the  ring.  Neddy  sat  in  his  chair  in  the  ring- 
corner,  and  spread  his  arms  on  the  ropes:  while 
his  second,  arms  uplifted,  stood  before  him  and 


Il6  THREE   ROUNDS. 

ducked  solemnly  forward  and  back  with  the 
towel  flicking  overhead.  While  he  was  fan- 
ning, Neddy  was  still  conscious  of  the  lump  of 
sausage-roll  in  his  chest.  Also  he  fell  to  won- 
dering idly  why  they  called  Beard  Patsy,  when 
his  first  name  was  Joe.  The  same  reflection 
applied  to  Tab  Rosser,  and  Hocko  Jones,  and 
Tiggy  Magson.  .  But  certainly  he  felt  hollow 
and  sick  in  the  belly.  Could  he  stand  punch- 
ing ?  It  would  never  do  to  chuck  it  half  through. 
Still  — 

"  Ready !  "  sang  the  timekeeper. 

The  old  pug  threw  the  towel  over  his  arm. 
"'Ave  a  moistener,"  he  said,  presenting  the 
water-bottle  to  Neddy's  mouth.  "Don't  swaller 
any,"  he  added,  as  his  principal  took  a  large 
gulp.  "Spit  it  out." 

"Seconds  out  of  the  ring!  " 

The  old  prize-fighter  took  his  bottle  and 
climbed  through  the  ropes.  "  Don't  go  in- 
fightin',"  he  whispered  from  behind.  "Mark 
'im  on  the  stickin'-plaster;  an'  if  you  don't  give 
'im  a  'idin',  bli'  me,  I  '11  give  you  one!  " 

"Time!" 

The  seconds  seized  the  chairs  and  dragged 
them  out  of  the  ring,  as  the  lads  advanced  and 
shook  hands.  Patsy  Beard  flung  back  his  right 
foot,  and  made  a  flashy  prance  with  his  left 
knee  as  they  began  to  spar  for  an  opening:  it 


THREE   ROUNDS.  1 1/ 

was  Patsy's  way.  All  Neddy's  anxiety  was 
gone.  The  moment  his  right  foot  dropped  be- 
hind his  left,  and  his  left  hand  rocked,  knuckles 
up,  before  him,  he  was  a  competent  workman, 
with  all  his  tools  in  order.  Even  the  lump  of 
dough  on  his  chest  he  felt  no  more. 

"  Buy,  buy !  "  bawled  a  wag  in  the  crowd,  as 
a  delicate  allusion  to  Beard's  more  ordinary 
occupation.  Patsy  grinned  at  the  compliment, 
but  Neddy  confined  his  attention  to  business. 
He  feinted  with  his  left,  and  got  back;  but 
Patsy  was  not  to  be  drawn.  Then  Neddy 
stepped  in  and  led  quickly,  ducking  the  counter 
and  repeating  before  getting  away.  Patsy  came 
with  a  rush  and  fought  for  the  body,  but  Neddy 
slipped  him,  and  got  in  one  for  nothing  on  the 
ear.  The  company  howled. 

They  sparred  in  the  middle.  Patsy  led  per- 
functorily with  the  left  now  and  again,  while 
his  right  elbow  undulated  nervously.  That  fore- 
told an  attempt  to  knock  out  with  the  right: 
precautions,  a  straight  and  persistent  left,  and  a 
wary  eye.  So  Neddy  kept  poking  out  his  left, 
and  never  lost  sight  of  the  court -plaster,  never 
of  the  shifty  right.  Give  and  take  was  the 
order  of  the  round,  and  they  fought  all  over  the 
ring,  Patsy  Beard  making  for  close  quarters,  and 
Neddy  keeping  off,  and  stopping  him  with  the 
left.  Neddy  met  a  straight  punch  on  the  nose 


Il8  THREE   ROUNDS. 

that  made  his  eyes  water,  but  through  the  tears 
he  saw  the  plaster  displaced,  and  a  tiny  stream 
of  blood  trickling  toward  the  corner  of  Patsy's 
mouth.  Plainly  it  was  a  cut.  He  broke  ground, 
stopped  half-way  and  banged  in  left  and  right. 
He  got  a  sharp  rive  on  the  neck  for  his  pains, 
and  took  the  right  on  his  elbow;  but  he  had 
landed  on  the  spot,  and  the  tiny  streak  of  blood 
was  smeared  out  wide  across  Patsy's  face.  The 
company  roared  and  whistled  with  enthusiasm. 
It  was  a  capital  rally. 

But  now  Neddy's  left  grew  slower,  and  was 
heavy  to  lift.  From  time  to  time  Patsy  got  in 
one  for  nothing,  and  soon  began  to  drive  him 
about  the  ring.  Neddy  fought  on,  weak  and 
gasping,  and  longed  for  the  call  of  time.  His 
arms  felt  as  if  they  were  hung  with  lead,  and  he 
could  do  little  more  than  push  feebly.  He 
heard  the  yell  of  many  voices,  "  Now  then,  Patsy, 
hout  him!  'Ave  'im  out!  That's  it,  Patsy, 
another  like  that !  Keep  on,  Patsy  !  " 

Patsy  kept  on.  Right  and  left,  above  and 
below,  Neddy  could  see  the  blows  coming.  But 
he  was  powerless  to  guard  or  to  return.  He 
could  but  stagger  about,  and  now  and  again 
swing  an  ineffectual  arm  as  it  hung  from  the 
shoulder.  Presently  a  flush  hit  on  the  nose 
drove  him  against  the  ropes,  another  in  the  ribs 
almost  through  them.  But  a  desperate,  wide 


THREE   ROUNDS.  119 

whirl  of  his  right  brought  it  heavily  on  Patsy's 
tender  spot,  and  tore  open  the  cut.  Patsy 
winced,  and  — 

"Time!" 

Neddy  was  grabbed  at  the  waist  and  put  in 
his  chair.  "  Good  lad  !  "  said  the  one-eyed  pug 
in  his  ear  as  he  sponged  his  face.  "Nothink 
like  pluck.  But  you  must  n't  go  to  pieces  'alf 
through  the  round.  Was  it  a  awk'ard  poke 
upsetcher?  " 

Neddy,  lying  back  and  panting  wildly,  shook 
his  head  as  he  gazed  at  the  ceiling.  "Awright; 
try  an'  save  yourself  a  bit.  Keep  yer  left  goin' 
—  you  roasted  'im  good  with  that;  'e  '11  want  a 
yard  o'  plaster  to-night.  An'  when  'e  gits 
leadin'  loose,  take  it  auf  an'  give  him  the  right 
straight  from  the  guard  —  if  you  know  the 
trick.  Point  o'  the  jaw  that  's  for,  mind.  'Ave  a 
cooler. "  He  took  a  mouthful  of  water  and  blew 
it  in  a  fine  spray  in  Neddy's  face,  wiped  it  down, 
and  began  another  overhead  fanning. 

"  Seconds  out  of  the  ring!"  called  the  time- 
keeper. 

"Go  it,  my  lad," — thus  a  whisper  from  be- 
hind, —  "you  can  walk  over  'im  !  "  And  Neddy 
fek  the  wet  sponge  squeezed  against  the  back  of 
his  neck,  and  the  cool  water  trickling  down  his 
spine. 

"Time!" 


120  THREE   ROUNDS, 

Neddy  was  better,  though  there  was  a  worn 
feeling  in  his  arm-muscles.  Patsy's  cut  had 
been  well  sponged,  but  it  still  bled,  and  Patsy 
meant  giving  Neddy  no  rest.  He  rushed  at 
once,  but  was  met  by  a  clean  right-hander,  slap 
on  the  sore  spot.  "Bravo,  Neddy!"  came  a 
voice,  and  the  company  howled  as  before.  Patsy 
was  steadied.  He  sparred  with  some  caution, 
twitching  the  cheek  next  the  cut.  Neddy  would 
not  lead  (for  he  must  save  himself),  and  so  the 
two  sparred  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  Patsy 
rushed  again,  and  Neddy  got  busy  with  both 
hands.  Once  he  managed  to  get  the  right  in 
from  the  guard  as  his  second  had  advised,  but 
not  heavily.  He  could  feel  his  strength  going 
—  earlier  than  in  the  last  round  —  and  Patsy 
was  as  strong  and  determined  as  ever.  Another 
rush  carried  Neddy  against  the  ropes,  where  he 
got  two  heavy  body  blows  and  a  bad  jaw-rattler. 
He  floundered  to  the  right  in  an  attempt  to 
slip,  and  fell  on  his  face.  He  rolled  on  his 
side,  however,  and  was  up  again,  breathless  and 
unsteady.  There  was  a  sickening  throbbing  in 
the  crown  of  his  head,  and  he  could  scarce  lift 
his  arms.  But  there  was  no  respite :  the  other 
lad  was  at  him  again,  and  he  was  driven  across 
the  ring  and  back,  blindly  pushing  his  aching 
arms  before  him,  while  punch  followed  punch 
on  nose,  ears,  jaws,  and  body,  till  something 


THREE   ROUNDS.  121 

began  to  beat  inside  his  head,  louder  and  harder 
than  all  beside,  stunning  and  sickening  him. 
He  could  hear  the  crowd  roaring  still,  but  it 
seemed  further  off;  and  the  yells  of  "That's  it, 
Patsy !  Now  you  've  got  'im !  Keep  at  'im ! 
Hout  'im  this  time ! "  came  from  some  other 
building  close  by,  where  somebody  was  getting 
a  bad  licking.  Somebody  with  no  control  of 
his  legs,  and  no  breath  to  spit  away  the  blood 
from  his  nose  as  it  ran  and  stuck  over  his  lips. 
Somebody  praying  for  the  end  of  the  three 
minutes  that  seemed  three  hours,  and  groaning 
inwardly  because  of  a  lump  of  cold  lead  in  his 
belly  that  had  once  been  sausage-roll.  Some- 
body to  whom  a  few  called  • — still  in  the  other 
building  —  "Chuck  it,  Neddy;  it's  no  good. 
Why  don'cher  chuck  it?"  while  others  said, 
"Take  'im  away,  tj/ke  'im  away!"  Then  some- 
thing hit  him  between  the  eyes,  and  some  other 
thing  behind  the  head;  that  was  one  of  the 
posts.  He  swung  an  arm,  but  it  met  nothing; 
then  the  other,  and  it  struck  somewhere;  and 
then  there  was  a  bang  that  twisted  his  head, 
and  hard  boards  were  against  his  face.  O  it 
was  bad,  but  it  was  a  rest. 

Cold  water  was  on  his  face,  and  somebody 
spoke.  He  was  in  his  chair  again,  and  the  one- 
eyed  man  was  sponging  him.  "  It  was  the  call 
o'  time  as  saved  ye  then, "  he  said ;  "you  'd  never 


122  THREE   ROUNDS. 

V  got  up  in  the  ten  seconds.  Y'  ain't  up  to 
another  round,  are  ye  ?  Better  chuck  it.  It 's 
no  disgrace,  after  the  way  you've  stood  up." 
But  Neddy  shook  his  head.  He  had  got  through 
two  of  the  three  rounds,  and  didn't  mean  throw- 
ing away  a  chance  of  saving  the  bout. 

"Awright,  if  you  won't,"  his  Mentor  said. 
"Nothink  like  pluck.  But  you're  no  good  on 
points  —  a  knock-out 's  the  on'y  chance.  Nurse 
yer  right,  an'  give  it  'im  good  on  the  point. 
'E  's  none  so  fresh  'isself;  'e 's  blowed  with  the 
work,  an'  you  pasted  'im  fine  when  you  did  'it. 
Last  thing,  just  before  'e  sent  ye  down,  ye 
dropped  a  'ot  'un  on  'is  beak.  Did  n't  see  it, 
didjer?"  The  old  bruiser  rubbed  vigorously  at 
his  arms,  and  gave  him  a  small,  but  welcome, 
drink  of  water. 

"  Seconds  out  of  the  ring !  " 

The  one-eyed  man  was  gone  once  more,  but 
again  his  voice  came  from  behind.  "  Mind  — 
give  it  'im  'ard  and  give  it  'im  soon,  an'  if  you 
feel  groggy,  chuck  it  d'reckly.  If  ye  don't,  I  '11 
drag  ye  out  by  the  slack  o'  yer  trousis  an' 
disgrace  ye." 

"Time!" 

Neddy  knew  there  was  little  more  than  half 
a  minute's  boxing  left  in  him  —  perhaps  not 
so  much.  He  must  do  his  best  at  once.  Patsy 
was  showing  signs  of  hard  wear,  and  still  blew 


THREE  ROUNDS.  123 

a  little :  his  nose  was  encouragingly  crimson  at 
the  nostrils,  and  the  cut  was  open  and  raw.  He 
rushed  in  with  a  lead  which  Neddy  ducked  and 
cross-countered,  though  ineffectually.  There 
were  a  few  vigorous  exchanges,  and  then  Neddy 
staggered  back  from  a  straight  drive  on  the 
mouth.  There  was  a  shout  of  "  Patsy ! "  and 
Patsy  sprang  in,  right  elbow  all  a-jerk,  and  flung 
in  the  left.  Neddy  guarded  wildly,  and  banged 
in  the  right  from  the  guard.  Had  he  hit?  He 
had  felt  no  shock,  but  there  was  Patsy,  lying  on 
his  face. 

The  crowd  roared  and  roared  again.  The  old 
pug  stuffed  his  chair  hastily  through  the  ropes, 
and  Neddy  sank  into  it,  panting,  with  bloodshot 
eyes.  Patsy  lay  still.  The  timekeeper  watched 
the  seconds-hand  pass  its  ten  points,  and  gave 
the  word,  but  Patsy  only  moved  a  leg.  Neddy 
Milton  had  won. 

"Brayvo,  young  *un,"  said  the  old  fighter,  as 
he  threw  his  arm  about  Neddy's  waist,  and 
helped  him  to  the  dressing-room.  "Cleanest 
knock-out  I  ever  see  —  smack  on  the  point  o' 
the  jaw.  Never  thought  you  'd  'a'  done  it.  I 
said  there  was  nothink  like  pluck,  did  V  I  ? 
JAve  a  wash  now,  an'  you  '11  be  all  the  better  for 
the  exercise.  Give  us  them  gloves  —  I'm  off 
for  the  next  bout."  And  he  seized  another  lad, 
and  marched  him  out. 


124  THREE    ROUNDS. 

"  'Ave  a  drop  o'  beer,"  said  one  of  Neddy's 
new-won  friends,  extending  a  tankard.  He  took 
it,  though  he  scarcely  felt  awake.  He  was  list- 
less and  weak,  and  would  not  have  moved  for  an 
hour  had  he  been  left  alone.  But  Patsy  was 
brought  to,  and  sneezed  loudly,  and  Neddy  was 
hauled  over  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

"You  give  me  a  'ell  of  a  doin',"  said  Neddy, 
"/never  thought  I  'd  beat  you." 

"Beat  me?  well  you  ain't,  'ave  you?     'Ow?" 

"Knock-out,"  answered  several  at  once. 

"Well,  I  'm  damned,"  said  Patsy  Beard.   .   .  . 

In  the  bar,  after  the  evening's  business,  Neddy 
sat  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  stout  red-faced 
men  who  smoked  fourpenny  cigars  and  drank 
special  Scotch;  but  not  one  noticed  him.  His 
luck  had  not  come  after  all.  But  there  was  the 
second  round  of  bouts,  and  the  final,  in  a  week's 
time  —  perhaps  it  would  come  then.  If  he  could 
only  win  the  final  —  then  it  must  come.  Mean- 
while he  was  sick  and  faint,  and  felt  doubtful 
about  getting  home.  Outside  it  was  raining  hard. 
He  laid  his  head  on  the  bar  table  at  which  he 
was  sitting,  and  at  closing  time  there  they  found 
him  asleep. 


IN   BUSINESS. 


IN   BUSINESS. 

THERE  was  a  great  effervescence  of  rumor 
in  Cubitt  Town  when  Ted  Munsey  came 
into  money.  Ted  Munsey,  commonly  alluded  to 
as  Mrs.  Munsey's  'usband,  was  a  moulder  with 
a  regular  job  at  Moffat's:  a  large,  quiet  man  of 
forty-five,  the  uncomplaining  appurtenance  of 
his  wife.  This  was  fitting,  for  she  had  married 
beneath  her,  her  father  having  been  a  dock 
timekeeper. 

To  come  into  money  is  an  unusual  feat  in 
Cubitt  Town;  a  feat,  nevertheless,  continually 
contemplated  among  possibilities  by  all  Cubitt 
Towners;  who  find  nothing  else  in  the  Sunday 
paper  so  refreshing  as  the  paragraphs  headed 
"Windfall  for  a  Cabman"  and  "A  Fortune  for  a 
Pauper,"  and  who  cut  them  out  to  pin  over  the 
mantelpiece.  The  handsome  coloring  of  such 
paragraphs  was  responsible  for  many  bold  flights 
of  fancy  in  regard  to  Ted  Munsey 's  fortune: 
Cubitt  Town,  left  to  itself,  being  sterile  soil  for 
the  imagination.  Some  said  that  the  Munseys 
had  come  in  for  chests  packed  with  bank  notes, 


128  IN  BUSINESS. 

on  the  decease  of  one  of  Mrs.  Munsey's  rela- 
tions, of  whom  she  was  wont  to  hint.  Others 
put  it  at  a  street  full  of  houses,  as  being  the 
higher  ideal  of  wealth.  A  few,  more  roman- 
tically given,  imagined  vaguely  of  ancestral 
lands  and  halls,  which  Mrs.  Munsey  and  her 
forbears  had  been  "  done  out  of "  for  many 
years  by  the  lawyers.  All  which  Mrs.  Mun- 
sey, in  her  hour  of  triumph,  was  at  little  pains 
to  discount,  although,  in  simple  fact,  the  for- 
tune was  no  more  than  a  legacy  of  a  hundred 
pounds  from  Ted's  uncle,  who  had  kept  a  public- 
house  in  Deptford. 

Of  the  hundred  pounds  Mrs.  Munsey  took 
immediate  custody.  There  was  no  guessing 
what  would  have  become  of  it  in  Ted's  hands; 
probably  it  would  have  been,  in  chief  part,  irre- 
coverably lent;  certainly  it  would  have  gone 
and  left  Ted  a  moulder  at  Moffat's,  as  before. 
With  Mrs.  Munsey  there  was  neither  hesitation 
nor  difficulty.  The  obvious  use  of  -a  hundred 
pounds  was  to  put  its  possessors  into  business 
—  which  meant  a  shop;  to  elevate  them  socially 
at  a  single  bound  beyond  the  many  grades  lying 
between  the  moulder  and  the  small  tradesman. 
Wherefore  the  Munseys  straightway  went  into 
business.  Being  equally  ignorant  of  every  sort 
of  shopkeeping,  they  were  free  to  choose  the 
sort  they  pleased;  and  thus  it  was  that  Mrs. 


IN  BUSINESS.  129 

Munsey  decided  upon  drapery  and  haberdashery, 
Ted's  contribution  to  the  discussion  being 
limited  to  a  mild  hint  of  greengrocery  and 
coals,  instantly  suppressed  as  low.  Nothing 
could  be  more  genteel  than  drapery,  and  it  would 
suit  the  girls.  General  chandlery,  sweetstuff, 
oil,  and  firewood — >all  these  were  low,  compara- 
tively. Drapery  it  was,  and  quickly;  for  Mrs. 
Munsey  was  not  wont  to  shilly-shally.  An 
empty  shop  was  found  in  Bromley,  was  rented, 
and  was  stocked  as  far  as  possible.  Tickets 
were  hung  upon  everything,  bearing  a  very  large 
main  figure  with  a  very  small  three-farthings 
beside  it,  and  the  thing  was  done.  The  stain 
of  moulding  was  washed  from  the  scutcheon ; 
the  descent  thereunto  from  dock  timekeeping 
was  redeemed  fivefold;  dock  timekeeping  itself 
was  left  far  below,  with  carpentering,  ship- 
wrighting,  and  engine-fitting.  The  Munseys 
were  in  business. 

Ted  Munsey  stood  about  helplessly  and  stared, 
irksomely  striving  not  to  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  which  was  low;  any  lapse  being  in- 
stantly detected  by  Mrs.  Munsey,  who  rushed 
from  all  sorts  of  unexpected  places  and  corrected 
the  fault  vigorously. 

"I  didn't  go  for  to  do  it,  Marier,"  he  ex- 
plained penitently.  "It's  'abit.  I'll  get  out 
of  it  soon.  It  don't  look  well,  I  know,  in  a 

9 


I3O  IN   BUSINESS. 

business;    but    it   do    seem    a    comfort,    some- 
how." 

"  O  you  an'  your  comfort !  A  lot  you  study 
my  comfort,  Hedward !  "  —  for  he  was  Ted  no 
more  —  "a-toilin'  an'  a-moilin'  with  everything 
to  think  of  myself  while  you  look  on  with  your 
'ands  in  your  pockets.  Do  try  an'  not  look 
like  a  stuck  ninny,  do!"  And  Hedward,  whose 
every  attempt  at  help  or  suggestion  had  been 
severely  repulsed,  slouched  uneasily  to  the  door, 
and  strove  to  look  as  business-like  as  possible. 

"There  you  go  again,  stickin'  in  the  doorway 
and  starin'  up  an'  down  the  street,  as  though 
there  was  no  business  doin'  "  —  there  was  none, 
but  that  might  not  be  confessed.  "D'  y'  expect 
people  to  come  in  with  you  a-fillin'  up  the  door? 
Do  come  in,  do !  You  'd  be  better  out  o'  the 
shop  altogether." 

Hedward  thought  so  too,  but  said  nothing. 
He  had  been  invested  with  his  Sunday  clothes 
of  lustrous  black,  and  brought  into  the  shop  to 
give  such  impression  of  a  shop-walker  as  he 
might.  He  stood  uneasily  on  alternate  feet, 
and  stared  at  the  ceiling,  the  floor,  or  the  space 
before  him,  with  an  unhappy  sense  of  being  on 
show  and  not  knowing  what  was  expected  of  him. 
He  moved  his  hands  purposelessly,  and  knocked 
things  down  with  his  elbows;  he  rubbed  his  hair 
all  up  behind,  and  furtively  wiped  the  resulting 


IN   BUSINESS.  131 

oil  from  his  hand  on  his  trousers:  never  looking 
in  the  least  degree  like  a  shop-walker. 

The  first  customer  was  a  very  small  child  who 
came  for  a  ha'porth  of  pins,  and  on  whom  Hed- 
ward  gazed  with  much  interest  and  respect,  while 
Mrs.  Munsey  handed  over  the  purchase:  abating 
not  a  jot  of  his  appreciation  when  the  child 
returned,  later,  to  explain  that  what  she  really 
wanted  was  sewing  cotton.  Other  customers 
were  disappointingly  few.  Several  old  neighbors 
came  in  from  curiosity,  to  talk  and  buy  nothing. 
One  woman,  who  looked  at  many  things  without 
buying,  was  discovered  after  her  departure  to 
have  stolen  a  pair  of  stockings;  and  Hedward 
was  duly  abused  for  not  keeping  a  sharp  look- 
out while  his  wife's  back  was  turned.  Finally, 
the  shutters  went  up  on  a  day's  takings  of  three 
and  sevenpence  farthing,  including  a  most  dubi- 
ous threepenny  bit.  But  then,  as  Mrs.  Munsey 
said,  when  you  are  in  business  you  must  expect 
trade  to  vary;  and  of  course  there  would  be  more 
customers  when  the  shop  got  known;  although 
Hedward  certainly  might  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  find  one  in  a  busier  thoroughfare.  Hedward 
(whose  opinion  in  that  matter,  as  in  others,  had 
never  been  asked)  retired  to  the  back-yard  to 
smoke  a  pipe  —  a  thing  he  had  been  pining  for 
all  day;  but  was  quickly  recalled  (the  pipe  being 
a  clay)  upon  Mrs.  Munsey's  discovery  that  the 


132  IN   BUSINESS. 

act  could  be  observed  from  a  neighbor's  win- 
dow. He  was  continually  bringing  the  family 
into  disgrace,  and  Mrs.  Munsey  despaired  aloud 
over  him  far  into  the  night. 

The  days  came  and  went,  and  trade  varied,  as 
a  fact,  very  little  indeed.  Between  three  and 
sevenpence  farthing  and  nothing  the  scope  for 
fluctuation  is  small,  and  for  some  time  the  first 
day's  record  was  never  exceeded.  But  on  the 
fifth  day  a  customer  bought  nearly  seven  shil- 
lings' worth  all  at  once.  Her  husband  had  that 
day  returned  from  sea  with  money,  and  she, 
after  months  of  stint,  indulged  in  an  orgie  of 
haberdashery  at  the  nearest  shop.  Mrs.  Munsey 
was  reassured.  Trade  was  increasing;  perhaps 
an  assistant  would  be  needed  soon,  in  addition 
to  the  two  girls. 

Only  the  younger  of  the  girls,  by  the  bye,  had 
as  yet  taken  any  active  interest  in  the  business: 
Emma,  the  elder,  spending  much  of  her  time 
in  a  bedroom,  making  herself  unpresentable 
by  inordinate  blubbering.  This  was  because 
of  Mrs.  Munsey's  prohibition  of  more  company- 
keeping  with  Jack  Page.  Jack  was  a  plumber, 
just  out  of  his  time  —  rather  a  catch  for  "a 
moulder's  daughter,  but  impossible,  of  course^ 
for  the  daughter  of  people  in  business,  as  Emma 
should  have  had  the  proper  feeling  to  see  for 
herself.  This  Emma  had  not:  she  wallowed  in 


IN  BUSINESS.  133 

a  luxury  of  woe,  exacerbated  on  occasions  to 
poignancy  by  the  scoldings  and  sometimes  by 
the  thumpings  of  her  mar;  and  neglected  even 
the  select  weekly  quadrille  class,  membership 
whereof  was  part  of  the  novel  splendor. 

But  there  was  never  again  a  seven-shilling 
customer.  The  state  of  trade  perplexed  Mrs. 
Munsey  beyond  telling.  Being  in  business, 
one  must,  by  the  circumstance,  have  a  genteel 
competence:  this  was  an  elementary  axiom  in 
Cubitt  Town.  But  where  was  the  money? 
What  was  the  difference  between  this  and  other 
shops?  Was  a  screw  loose  anywhere?  In  that 
case  it  certainly  could  not  be  her  fault;  where- 
fore she  nagged  Hedward. 

One  day  a  polite  young  man  called  in  a  large 
pony-trap  and  explained  the  whole  mystery. 
Nobody  could  reasonably  expect  to  succeed  in 
a  business  of  this  sort  who  did  not  keep  a  good 
stock  of  the  fancy  aprons  and  lace  bows  made 
by  the  firm  he  was  charged  to  represent.  Of 
course  he  knew  what  business  was,  and  that 
cash  was  not  always  free,  but  that  need  never 
hinder  transactions  with  him :  three  months' 
credit  was  the  regular  thing  with  any  respect- 
able, well-established  business  concern,  and  in 
three  months  one  would  certainly  sell  all  the 
fancy  aprons  and  lace  bows  of  this  especial  kind 
and  price  that  one  had  room  for;  And  he  need 


134  IN    BUSINESS. 

scarcely  remind  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Munsey's  busi- 
ness experience  that  fancy  aprons  and  lace  bows 
—  of  the  right  sort  —  were  by  far  the  most 
profitable  goods  known  to  the  trade.  Every- 
body knew  that.  Should  they  say  a  gross  of 
each,  just  to  go  on  with?  No?  Well,  then 
half  a  gross.  These  prices  were  cut  so  near 
that  it  really  did  not  pay  to  split  the  gross,  but 
this  time,  to  secure  a  good  customer,  he  would 
stretch  a  point.  Mrs.  Munsey  was  enlightened. 
Plainly  the  secret  of  success  in  business  was  to 
buy  advantageously,  in  the  way  the  polite  young 
man  suggested,  sell  at  a  good  price,  and  live  on 
the  profits :  merely  paying  over  the  remainder 
at  the  end  of  three  months.  Nothing  could  be 
simpler.  So  she  began  the  system  forthwith. 
Other  polite  young  men  called,  and  further  cer- 
tain profits  were  arranged  for  on  similar  terms. 
The  weak  spot  in  the  plan  was  the  absence  of 
any  binding  arrangement  with  the  general  pub- 
lic; and  this  was  not  long  in  discovering  itself. 
Nobody  came  to  buy  the  fancy  aprons  and  the 
lace  bows,  tempting  as  they  might  seem.  More- 
over, after  they  had  hung  a  week  or  more,  Alice 
reported  that  a  large  shop  in  the  Commercial 
Road  was  offering,  by  retail,  aprons  and  bows 
of  precisely  the  same  sort  at  a  less  price  than 
the  polite  young  man  had  charged  for  a  whole- 
sale purchase.  Mrs.  Munsey  grew  desperate, 


IN  BUSINESS.  135 

and  Hedward's  life  became  a  horror  unto  him. 
He  was  set  to  stand  at  the  door  with  a  fancy 
apron  in  one  hand  and  a  lace  bow  in  the  other, 
and  capture  customers  as  they  passed :  a  func- 
tion wherein  he  achieved  detestable  failure; 
alarming  passing  women  (who  considered  him 
dangerously  drunk)  as  greatly  as  his  situation 
distressed  himself. 

Mrs.  Munsey  grew  more  desperate,  and  drove 
Hedward  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  with  bitter 
revilings.  Money  must  be  got  out  of  the  stock 
somehow.  That  a  shop  could  in  any  circum- 
stances be  unremunerative  puzzled  as  much  as 
it  dismayed  her.  The  goods  were  marked  down 
to  low  prices  —  often  lower  than  cost.  Still 
Mrs.  Munsey  had  the  abiding  conviction  that 
the  affair  must  pay,  as  others  did,  if  only  she 
might  hold  out  long  enough.  Hedward's  sug- 
gestion that  he  should  return  to  the  moulding, 
coming  and  going  as  little  in  sight  as  possible, 
she  repelled  savagely.  "A  nice  notion  you've 
got  o'  keepin'  up  a  proper  position.  You  ain't 
content  with  disgracin'  me  and  yourself  too, 
playin'  the  fool  in  the  shop  till  trade  's  ruined 
an'  nobody  won't  come  near  the  place  —  an'  I 
don't  wonder  at  it.  ...  You  're  a  nice  sort  of 
'usband,  I  must  say.  What  are  you  goin'  to  do 
now,  with  the  business  in  this  pretty  mess,  an' 
your  wife  an'  children  ready  to  starve?  What 


136  IN   BUSINESS. 

are  you  goin'  to  do?  Where  are  you  goin'  to 
turn?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Well,  I  'm  a-thinkin'  it  out,  Marier,  in  a 
legal  point.  P'r'aps,  you  know,  my  dear  —  " 

"  Oh,  don't  dear  me !     I  'ate  a  fool. " 

Marked  as  low  as  they  might  be,  none  of  the 
aprons  nor  the  bows  nor  the  towels  nor  the 
stockings  nor  any  other  of  the  goods  were 
bought  —  never  a  thing  beyond  a  ha'porth  of 
thread  or  a  farthing  bodkin.  Rent  had  to  be 
paid,  and  even  food  cost  money.  There  was  a 
flavor  of  blank  disappointment  about  Saturday 
—  the  pay  day  of  less  anxious  times;  and  quar- 
ter day,  when  all  these  polite  young  men  would 
demand  the  money  that  was  not  —  that  day  was 
coming,  black  and  soon.  Mrs.  Munsey  grew 
more  desperate  than  ever,  sharp  of  feature,  and 
aged.  Alone,  she  would  probably  have  wept. 
Having  Hedward  at  hand,  she  poured  forth  her 
bitterness  of  spirit  upon  him ;  till  at  last  he  was 
nagged  out  of  his  normal  stolidity,  and  there 
came  upon  his  face  the  look  of  a  bullock  that  is 
harried  on  all  hands  through  unfamiliar  streets. 

On  a  night  when,  from  sheer  weariness  of 
soul,  she  fell  from  clatter  toward  sleep,  of  a 
sudden  Hedward  spoke.  "Marier  —  "  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"You  ain't  give  me  a  kiss  lately.  Kiss  me 
now." 


IN   BUSINESS.  137 

"Don't  be  a  fool.  I'm  sick  an'  tired.  Go 
to  sleep,  if  you  can  sleep,  with  everything  —  " 

"Kiss  me,  I  tell  you!"  He  had  never  com- 
manded like  that  before.  She  marvelled,  feared 
a  little,  and  obeyed. 

In  the  morning,  when  she  awoke,  he  had 
already  gone  downstairs.  This  was  as  usual. 
When  she  followed,  however,  he  was  not  to  be 
found  in  the  house.  The  shop  shutters  had 
been  taken  down,  and  the  windows  carefully 
cleaned,  although  it  was  not  the  regular  win- 
dow-cleaning day;  but  the  door  was  shut.  On 
the  sitting-room  table  were  two  papers,  one 
within  the  other.  The  first  was  written  with 
many  faults  and  smudges,  and  this  was  how  it 
ran:  — 

"the  deed  and  testiment  of  Ed.  Munsey  this 
is  to  cirtiffy  that  i  make  over  all  my  property 
to  my  belovd  wife  stock  bisness  and  furnitur  so 
help  me  god  all  detts  i  keep  to  pay  myself  and 
my  wife  is  not  ansrable  for  them  and  certiffy 
that  I  O  U  Minchin  and  co  9  pound  4/7^  Jones 
and  son  6  pound  13/2  and  settrer  all  other  detts 
me  and  not  my  wife  I  O  U 

ED.  MUNSEY" 

The  other  was  a  letter :  — 


138  IN  BUSINESS. 

"  my  dear  wife  i  have  done  this  legle  docker- 
ment  after  thinking  it  out  it  will  make  you  alrite 
having  all  made  over  and  me  still  oawe  the  detts 
not  you  as  you  can  pull  round  the  bisness  as  you 
said  with  time  and  if  you  do  not  see  me  again 
will  you  pay  the  detts  when  it  is  pull  round  as 
we  have  been  allways  homiest  and  straght  i 
should  wish  for  Emma  to  keep  co  with  Jhon 
Page  if  can  be  mannaged  he  might  be  shop 
walker  and  you  will  soon  all  be  rich  swels  i 
know  so  no  more  from  yours  affec  husband 

ED.  MUNSEY 

"love  to  Emma  and  Alice  this  one  must  be 
burnt  keep  the  other  " 

Near  the  papers  lay  Ted  Munsey's  large  silver 
watch  and  chain,  the  silver  ring  that  he  used  to 
fasten  his  best  tie,  three  keys,  and  a  few  cop- 
pers. Upstairs  the  girls  began  to  move  about. 
Mrs.  Munsey  sat  with  her  frightened  face  on 
the  table. 


THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 


THE   RED   COW  GROUP. 

r  I  ^HE  Red  Cow  Anarchist  Group  no  longer 
A       exists.     Its  leading  spirit  appears  no  more 
among  his  devoted  comrades,  and  without  him 
they  are  ineffectual. 

He  was  but  a  young  man,  this  leading  spirit, 
(his  name,  by  the  bye,  was  Sotcher,)  but  of  his 
commanding  influence  among  the  older  but  un- 
lettered men  about  him,  read  and  judge.  For 
themselves,  they  had  long  been  plunged  in  a 
beery  apathy,  neither  regarding  nor  caring  for 
the  fearful  iniquities  of  the  social  system  that 
oppressed  them.  A  Red  Cow  group  they  had 
always  been,  before  the  coming  of  Sotcher  to 
make  Anarchists  of  them :  forgathering  in  a  re- 
mote compartment  of  the  Red  Cow  bar,  reached 
by  a  side  door  in  an  alley;  a  compartment  un- 
invaded  and  almost  undiscovered  by  any  but 
themselves,  where  night  after  night  they  drank 
their  beer  and  smoked  their  pipes,  sunk  in  a 
stagnant  ignorance  of  their  manifold  wrongs. 
During  the  day  Old  Baker  remained  to  garrison 
the  stronghold.  He  was  a  long-bankrupt  trades- 


142  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

man,  with  invisible  resources  and  no  occupation 
but  this,  and  no  known  lodging  but  the  Red 
Cow  snuggery.  There  he  remained  all  day  and 
every  day,  "holding  the  fort,"  as  he  put  it: 
with  his  nose,  a  fiery  signal  of  possession,  never 
two  feet  from  the  rim  of  his  pot ;  while  Jerry 
Shand  was  carrying  heavy  loads  in  Columbia 
Market;  while  Gunno  Poison  was  running  for 
a  book-maker  in  Fleet  Street;  while  Snorkey 
was  wherever  his  instinct  took  him,  doing  what- 
ever paid  best,  and  keeping  out  of  trouble  as 
long  as  he  could;  and  while  the  rest  of  the 
group  — •  two  or  three  —  picked  a  living  out  of 
the  London  heap  in  ways  and  places  unspecified. 
But  at  evening  they  joined  Old  Baker,  and  they 
filled  their  snuggery. 

Their  talk  was  rarely  of  politics,  and  never  of 
"social  problems":  present  and  immediate  facts 
filled  their  whole  field  of  contemplation.  Their 
accounts  were  kept,  and  their  references  to 
pecuniary  matters  were  always  stated,  in  terms 
of  liquid  measure.  Thus,  fourpence  was  never 
spoken  of  in  the  common  way :  it  was  a  quart, 
and  a  quart  was  the  monetary  standard  of  the 
community.  Even  as  twopence  was  a  pint,  and 
eightpence  was  half-a-gallon. 

It  was  Snorkey  who  discovered  Sotcher,  and 
it  was  with  Snorkey  that  that  revolutionary 
appeared  before  the  Red  Cow  group  with  his 


THE   RED   COW   GROUP.  143 

message  of  enlightenment.  Snorkey  (who  was 
christened  something  else  that  nobody  knew  or 
cared  about)  had  a  trick  of  getting  into  extraor- 
dinary and  unheard-of  places  in  his  daily  quest 
of  quarts,  and  he  had  met  Sotcher  in  a  loft  at 
the  top  of  a  house  in  Berners  Street,  Shadwell. 
It  was  a  loft  where  the  elect  of  Anarchism 
congregated  nightly,  and  where  everybody  lec- 
tured all  the  others.  Sotcher  was  a  very  young 
Anarchist,  restless  by  reason  of  not  being  suffi- 
ciently listened  to,  and  glad  to  find  outsiders 
to  instruct  and  to  impress  with  a  full  sense  of 
his  sombre,  mystic  dare-devilry.  Therefore  he 
came  to  the  Red  Cow  with  Snorkey,  to  spread 
(as  he  said)  the  light. 

He  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm,  per- 
haps because  of  a  certain  unlaundered  aspect 
of  person  remarkable  even  to  them  of  the  Red 
Cow  group.  Grease  was  his  chief  exterior  char- 
acteristic, and  his  thick  hair,  turning  up  over  his 
collar,  seemed  to  have  lain  for  long  unharried 
of  brush  or  comb.  His  face  was  a  sebaceous 
trickle  of  long  features,  and  on  his  hands  there 
was  a  murky  deposit  that  looked  like  scales. 
He  wore,  in  all  weathers,  a  long  black  coat  with 
a  rectangular  rent  in  the  skirt,  and  his  throat 
he  clipped  in  a  brown  neckerchief  that  on  a 
time  had  been  of  the  right  Anarchist  red.  But 
no  want  of  welcome  could  abash  him.  Here, 


144  THE  RED  cow  GROUP. 

indeed,  he  had  an  audience,  an  audience  that 
did  not  lecture  on  its  own  account,  a  crude 
audience  that  might  take  him  at  his  own  valua- 
tion. So  he  gave  it  to  that  crude  audience,  hot 
and  strong.  They  (and  he)  were  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  bullied,  plundered  and  abused.  Down 
with  everything  that  was  n't  down  already.  And 
so  forth  and  so  on. 

His  lectures  were  continued.  Every  night  it 
was  the  same  as  every  other,  and  each  several 
chapter  of  his  discourse  was  a  repetition  of  the 
one  before.  Slowly  the  Red  Cow  group  came 
around.  Plainly  other  people  were  better  off 
than  they;  and  certainly  each  man  found  it  hard 
to  believe  that  anybody  else  was  more  deserving 
than  himself. 

"  Wy  are  we  pore  ?  "  asked  Sotcher,  leaning 
forward  and  jerking  his  extended  palm  from  one 
to  another,  as  though  attempting  a  hasty  collec- 
tion. "I  ask  you  straight,  wy  are  we  pore? 
Why  is  it,  my  frien's,  that  awften  and  awften 
you  find  you  ain't  got  a  penny  in  yer  pocket, 
not  for  to  git  a  crust  o'  bread  or  'alf  a  pint  o' 
reasonable  refreshment?  'Ow  is  it  that  'appens? 
Agin  I  ask,  'ow?  " 

Snorkey,  with  a  feeling  that  an  answer  was 
expected  from  somebody,  presently  murmured, 
"No  mugs,"  which  encouraged  Gunno  Poison 
to  suggest,  "Backers  all  stony-broke."  Jerry 


THE  RED   COW   GROUP.  145 

Sh.and  said  nothing,  but  reflected  on  the  occa- 
sional result  of  a  day  on  the  loose.  Old  Baker 
neither  spoke  nor  thought. 

"I'll  tell  you,  me  frien's.  It's  'cos  o*  the 
rotten  state  o'  s'ciety.  Wy  d'  you  allow  the 
lazy,  idle,  dirty,  do-nothing  upper  classes,  as 
they  call  'emselves,  to  reap  all  the  benefits  o' 
your  toil  wile  you  slave  an'  slave  to  keep  'em 
in  lukshry  an'  starve  yerselves?  Wy  don't  you 
go  an'  take  your  shares  o'  the  wealth  lyin'  round 
you  ?  " 

There  was  another  pause.  Gunno  Poison 
looked  at  his  friends  one  after  another,  spat 
emphatically,  and  said,  "Coppers." 

"  Becos  o'  the  brute  force  as  the  privileged 
classes  is  'edged  theirselves  in  with,  that 's  all. 
Becos  o'  the  paid  myrmidons  armed  an'  kep'  to 
make  slaves  o'  the  people.  Becos  o'  the  magis- 
trates an'  p'lice.  Then  wy  not  git  rid  o'  the 
magistrates  an'  p'lice?  They're  no  good,  are 
they?  'Oo  wants  'em,  I  ask?  'Oo?" 

"They  are  a  noosance,"  admitted  Snorkey, 
who  had  done  a  little  time  himself.  He  was  a 
mere  groundling,  and  persisted  in  regarding  the 
proceedings  as  simple  conversation,  instead  of 
as  an  oration  with  pauses  at  the  proper  places. 

"  Nobody  wants  'em  —  nobody  as  is  any  good. 
Then  don't 'ave  'em,  me  frien's  —  don't  'ave  'em! 
It  all  rests  with  you.  Don't  'ave  no  magis- 


146  THE   RED   COW  GROUP. 

trates  nor  p'lice,  nor  gover'ment,  nor  parliament, 
nor  monarchy,  nor  county  council,  nor  nothink. 
Make  a  clean  sweep  of  'em.  Blow  'em  up. 
Then  you  '11  'ave  yer  rights.  The  time  's  comin', 
I  tell  you.  It 's  comin',  take  my  word  for  it. 
Now  you  toil  an' slave;  then  everybody '11  'ave 
to  work  w'ether  'e  likes  it  or  not,  and  two  hours 
work  a  day  '11  be  all  you  '11  'ave  to  do." 

Old  Baker  looked  a  little  alarmed,  and  for  a 
moment  paused  in  his  smoking. 

"  Two  hours  a  day  at  most,  that 's  all ;  an'  all 
yer  wants  provided  for,  free  an'  liberal."  Some 
of  the  group  gave  a  lickerish  look  across  the 
bar.  "No  a'thority,  no  gover'ment,  no  privi- 
lege, an'  nothink  to  interfere.  Free  contrack 
between  man  an'  man,  subjick  to  free  revision 
an'  change." 

"Wot's  that?"  demanded  Jerry  Shand,  who 
was  the  slowest  convert. 

"Wy,  that,"  Sotcher  explained,  "means  that 
everybody  can  make  wot  arrangements  with  'is 
feller-men  'e  likes  for  to  carry  on  the  business 
of  life,  but  nothink  can't  bind  you.  You  chuck 
over  the  arrangement  if  it  suits  best." 

"Ah,"  said  Gunno  Poison  musingly,  rotating 
his  pot  horizontally  before  him  to  stir  the  beer; 
"that  'ud  be  'andy  sometimes.  They  call  it 
welshin'  now." 


THE   RED   COW   GROUP.  147 

The  light  spread  fast  and  free,  and  in  a  few 
nights  the  Red  Cow  group  was  a  very  promis- 
ing little  bed  of  Anarchy.  Sotcher  was  at  pains 
to  have  it  reported  at  two  places  west  of  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  and  at  another  in  Dean  Street, 
Soho,  that  at  last  a  comrade  had  secured  an 
excellent  footing  with  a  party  of  the  proletariat 
of  East  London,  hitherto  looked  on  as  hopeless 
material.  More:  that  an  early  manifestation 
of  activity  might  be  expected  in  that  quarter. 
Such  activity  had  been  held  advisable  of  late, 
in  view  of  certain  extraditions. 

And  Sotcher's  discourse  at  the  Red  Cow 
turned,  lightly  and  easily,  toward  the  question 
of  explosives.  Anybody  could  make  them,  he 
explained;  nothing  simpler,  with  care.  And 
here  he  posed  at  large  in  the  character  of  mys- 
terious desperado,  the  wonder  and  admiration 
of  all  the  Red  Cow  group.  They  should  buy 
nitric  acid,  he  said,  of  the  strongest  sort,  and 
twice  as  much  sulphuric  acid.  The  shops  where 
they  sold  photographic  materials  were  best  and 
cheapest  for  these  things,  and  no  questions 
were  asked.  They  should  mix  the  acids,  and 
then  add  gently,  drop  by  drop,  the  best  glyce- 
rine, taking  care  to  keep  everything  cool.  After 
which  the  whole  lot  must  be  poured  into  water, 
to  stand  for  an  hour.  Then  a  thick,  yellowish, 
oily  stuff  would  be  found  to  have  sunk  to  the 


148  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

bottom,  which  must  be  passed  through  several 
pails  of  water  to  be  cleansed:  and  there  it  was, 
a  terrible  explosive.  You  handled  it  with  care 
and  poured  it  on  brick-dust  or  dry  sand,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort  that  would  soak  it  up,  and  then 
it  could  be  used  with  safety  to  the  operator. 

The  group  listened  with  rapt  attention,  more 
than  one  pot  stopping  half-way  on  its  passage 
mouthwards.  Then  Jerry  Shand  wanted  to  know 
if  Sotcher  had  ever  blown  up  anything  or  any- 
body himself. 

The  missionary  admitted  that  that  glory  had 
not  been  his.  "I'm  one  o'  the  teachers,  me 
frien's — one  o'  the  pioneers  that  goes  to  show 
the  way  for  the  active  workers  like  you.  I  on'y 
come  to  explain  the  principles  an'  set  you  in 
the  right  road  to  the  social  revolution,  so  as  you 
may  get  yer  rights  at  last.  It 's  for  you  to  act." 

Then  he  explained  that  action  might  be  taken 
in  two  ways:  either  individually  or  by  mutual 
aid  in  the  group.  Individual  work  was  much 
to  be  preferred,  being  safer;  but  a  particu- 
lar undertaking  often  necessitated  co-operation. 
But  that  was  for  the  workers  to  settle  as  the 
occasion  arose.  However,  one  thing  must  be 
remembered.  If  the  group  operated,  each  man 
must  be  watchful  of  the  rest ;  there  must  be  no 
half  measures,  no  timorousness;  any  comrade 
wavering,  temporizing,  or  behaving  in  any  way 


THE   RED   COW   GROUP.  149 

suspiciously,  must  be  straightway  suppressed. 
There  must  be  no  mistake  about  that.  It  was 
desperate  and  glorious  work,  and  there  must  be 
desperate  and  rapid  methods  both  of  striking 
and  guarding.  These  things  he  made  clear  in 
his  best  conspirator's  manner:  with  nods  and 
scowls  and  a  shaken  forefinger,  as  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  oversetting  empires. 

The  men  of  the  Red  Cow  group  looked  at 
each  other,  and  spat  thoughtfully.  Then  a  com- 
rade asked  what  had  better  be  blown  up  first. 
Sotcher's  opinion  was  that  there  was  most  glory 
in  blowing  up  people,  in  a  crowd  or  at  a  theatre. 
But  a  building  was  safer,  as  there  was  more 
chance  of  getting  away.  Of  buildings,  a  public 
office  was  probably  to  be  preferred  —  something 
in  Whitehall,  say.  Or  a  bank  —  nobody  seemed 
to  have  tried  a  bank:  he  offered  the  suggestion 
now.  Of  course  there  were  not  many  public 
buildings  in  the  East  End,  but  possibly  the 
group  would  like  to  act  in  their  own  neighbor- 
hood :  it  would  be  a  novelty,  and  would  attract 
notice;  the  question  was  one  for  their  own 
decision,  independent  freedom  of  judgment  be- 
ing the  right  thing  in  these  matters.  There 
were  churches,  of  course,  and  the  factories  of 
the  bloated  capitalist.  Particularly,  he  might 
suggest  the  gas-works  close  by.  There  was  a 
large  gasometer  abutting  on  the  street,  and 


150  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

probably  an  explosion  there  would  prove  tre- 
mendously effective,  putting  the  lights  out 
everywhere,  and  attracting  great  attention  in 
the  papers.  That  was  glory. 

Jerry  Shand  hazarded  a  remark  about  the 
lives  of  the  men  in  the  gas-works;  but  Sotcher 
explained  that  that  was  a  trivial  matter.  Rev- 
olutions were  never  accomplished  without  blood- 
shed, and  a  few  casual  lives  were  not  to  be 
weighed  in  the  balance  against  the  glorious  con- 
summation of  the  social  upheaval.  He  repeated 
his  contention,  when  some  weaker  comrade  spoke 
of  the  chance  of  danger  to  the  operator,  and  re- 
peated it  with  a  proper  scorn  of  the  soft-handed 
pusillanimity  that  shrank  from  danger  to  life 
and  limb  in  the  cause.  Look  at  the  glory,  and 
consider  the  hundred-fold  vengeance  on  the 
enemy  in  the  day  to  come!  The  martyr's  crown 
was  his  who  should  die  at  the  post  of  duty. 

His  eloquence  prevailed:  there  were  murmurs 
no  more.  "  'Ere,  tell  us  the  name  of  the  stuff 
agin,"  broke  out  Gunno  Poison,  resolutely, 
feeling  for  a  pencil  and  paper.  "Blimy,  I'll 
make  some  to-morrer. " 

He  wrote  down  the  name  of  the  ingredients 
with  much  spelling.  "Thick,  yuller,  oily  stuff, 
ain't  it,  wot  you  make?  "  he  asked. 

"Yus  —  an'  keep  it  cool." 

The  group  broke  up,  stern  and  resolute,  and 


THE   RED    COW    GROUP.  151 

Sotcher  strode  to  his  home  exultant,  a  man  of 
power. 

For  the  next  night  or  two  the  enthusiasm  at 
the  Red  Cow  was  unbounded.  There  was  no 
longer  any  questioning  of  principles  or  action 
—  every  man  was  an  eager  Anarchist  —  strong 
and  devoted  in  the  cause.  The  little  chemical 
experiment  was  going  on  well,  Gunno  Poison  re- 
ported, with  confident  nods  and  winks.  Sotcher 
repeated  his  discourse,  as  a  matter  of  routine, 
to  maintain  the  general  ardor,  which  had,  how- 
ever, to  endure  a  temporary  check  as  the  result 
of  a  delicate  inquiry  of  Snorkey's,  as  to  what 
funds  might  be  expected  from  head-quarters. 
For  there  were  no  funds,  said  Sotcher,  some- 
what surprised  at  the  question. 

"Wot?"  demanded  Jerry  Shand,  opening  his 
mouth  and  putting  down  his  pipe:  "ain't  we 
goin'  to  get  nothink  for  all  this?" 

They  would  get  the  glory,  Sotcher  assured 
him,  and  the  consciousness  of  striking  a  mighty 
blow  at  this,  and  that,  and  the  other;  but  that 
was  all.  And  instantly  the  faces  of  the  group 
grew  long. 

"But,"  said  Old  Baker,  "I  thought  all  you 
blokes  always  got  somethink  from  'the  —  the 
committee?  " 

There  was  no  committee,  and  no  funds :  there 


152  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

was  nothing  but  glory,  and  victory,  and  triumph, 
and  the  social  revolution,  and  things  of  that 
kind.  For  a  little,  the  comrades  looked  at 
each  other  awkwardly,  but  they  soon  regained 
their  cheerfulness,  with  zeal  no  whit  abated. 
The  sitting  closed  with  promises  of  an  early 
gathering  for  the  next  night. 

But  when  the  next  night  came  Sotcher  was 
later  than  usual.  "  LJllo,"  shouted  Gunno  Pol- 
son,  as  he  entered,  "  'ere  you  are  at  last. 
We  've  'ad  to  do  important  business  without 
you.  See,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "'ere's 
the  stuff!"  And  he  produced  an  old  physic- 
bottle  nearly  full  of  a  thick,  yellowish  fluid. 

Sotcher  started  back  half  a  pace,  and  slightly 
paled.  "  Don't  shake  it,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 
"Don't  shake  it,  for  Gawd's  sake!  .  .  .  Wot  — 
wotjer  bring  it  'ere  for,  like  that?  It  's  —  it  's 
awful  stuff,  blimy."  He  looked  uneasily  about 
the  group,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  the  back 
of  his  hand.  "I  —  I  thought  you  'd  git  the  job 
over  soon  as  the  stuff  was  ready.  .  .  .  'Ere,  my 
Gawd!"  he  squeaked  under  his  breath,  "don't 
put  it  down'ard  on  the  table  like  that.  It  's 
sich  —  sich  awful  stuff."  He  wiped  his  fore- 
head again,  and,  still  standing,  glanced  once 
more  apprehensively  round  the  circle  of  impas- 
sive faces.  Then  after  a  pause,  he  asked,  with 
an  effort,  "Wot  —  wotjer  goin'  to  do  now?  " 


THE   RED  COW  GROUP.  153 

"Blow  up  the  bleed'n'  gas-works,  o'  course/' 
answered  Gunno  Poison  complacently.  "'Ere's 
a  penn'orth  o'  silver  sand,  an'  a  'bacca  canister, 
an'  some  wire,  an'  a  big  cracker  with  a  long 
touch-paper,  so  as  to  stick  out  o'  the  canister- 
lid.  That  ought  to  set  it  auf,  oughtn't  it?  'Ere, 
you  pour  the  stuff  over  the  sand,  doncher?" 
And  he  pulled  out  the  cork  and  made  ready  to 
mix. 

"  'Old  on  —  'old  on  —  don't !  Wait  a  bit,  for 
Gawd's  sake!"  cried  Sotcher,  in  a  sweat  of  ter- 
ror. "  You  —  you  dunno  wot  awful  stuff  it  is  — 
s'elp  me,  you  don't !  You  —  you  '11  blow  us  all 
up  if  you  don't  keep  it  still.  Y  —  you  '11  want 
some  —  other  things.  I  '11  go  an'  —  " 

But  Jerry  Shand  stood  grimly  against  the 
door.  "This  'ere  conspiracy  '11  'ave  to  be  gawn 
through  proper, "  he  said.  "We  can't  'ave  no 
waverers  nor  blokes  wot  want  to  clear  out  in  the 
middle  of  it,  and  p'r'aps  go  an'  tell  the  p'lice. 
Them  sort  we  'as  to  suppress,  see?  There  's  all 
the  stuff  there,  me  lad,  an'  you  know  it.  Wot 's 
more,  it 's  you  as  is  got  to  put  it  up  agin  the 
gas-works  an'  set  it  auf." 

The  hapless  Sotcher  turned  a  yellower  pallor 
and  asked  faintly,  "Me?  Wy  me?  " 

"All  done  reg'lar  and  proper,"  Jerry  replied, 
"'fore  you  come.  We  voted  it  —  by  ballot,  all 
square.  If  you  'd  'a'  come  earlier  you  'd  'a'  'ad  a 
vote  yerself." 


154  THE   RED    COW   GROUP. 

Sotcher  pushed  at  Jerry's  shoulder  despair- 
ingly. "  I  won't,  I  won't !"  he  gasped.  "  Lemme 
go  —  it  ain't  fair  —  I  was  n't  'ere  —  lemme  go  !  " 

"None  o'  yer  shovin',  young  man,"  said  Jerry 
severely.  "  None  o'  yer  shovin',  else  I'll  'ave 
to  punch  you  on  the  jore.  You  're  a  bleed'n' 
nice  conspirator,  you  are.  It 's  pretty  plain  we 
can't  depend  on  you,  an'  you  know  wot  that 
means,  — eh?  Doncher?  You're  one  o'  the 
sort  as  'as  to  be  suppressed,  that 's  wot  it  means. 
'Ere,  'ave  a  drink  o'  this  'ere  beer,  an'  see  if  that 
can't  put  a  little  'art  in  ye.  You  got  to  do  it, 
so  you  may  as  well  do  it  cheerful.  Snorkey, 
give  'im  a  drink." 

But  the  wretched  revolutionary  would  not 
drink.  He  sank  in  a  corner  —  the  furthest  from 
the  table  where  Gunno  Poison  was  packing 
his  dreadful  canister  —  a  picture  of  stupefied 
affright. 

Presently  he  thought  of  the  bar  —  a  mere  yard 
of  counter  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  with  a  screen 
standing  above  it  — and  conceived  a  wild  notion 
of  escape  by  scrambling  over.  But  scarce  had 
he  risen  ere  the  watchful  Jerry  divined  his 
purpose. 

"'Old  'im,  Snorkey,"  he  said.  "Keep  'im  in 
the  corner.  An'  if  'e  won't  drink  that  beer, 
pour  it  over  'is  'ead." 

Snorkey  obeyed  gravely  and  conscientiously, 


THE   RED  COW  GROUP.  155 

and  the  bedraggled  Sotcher,  cowed  from  protest, 
whined  and  sobbed  desolately. 

When  all  was  ready,  Jerry  Shand  said :  "  I 
s'pose  it 's  no  good  askin'  you  to  do  it  willin', 
like  a  man?  " 

"  O,  let  me  go,  I  —  I  ain't  well  —  s'elp  me,  I 
ain't.  I  —  I  might  do  it  wrong  —  an'  —  an'  — 
I 'm  a  —  a  teacher  —  a  speaker;  not  the  active 
branch,  s'elp  me.  Put  it  auf  —  for  to-night — - 
wait  till  to-morrer.  I  ain't  well  an'  —  an'  you  're 
very  'ard  on  me  !  " 

"  Desp'rit  work,  desp'rit  ways,"  Jerry  replied 
laconically.  "You're  be'avin'  very  suspicious, 
an'  you  're  rebellin'  agin  the  orders  o'  the  group. 
There  's  only  one  physic  for  that,  ain't  there, 
in  the  rules?  You  're  got  to  be  suppressed. 
Question  is  'ow.  We '11 'ave  to  kill  'im  quiet 
somehow,"  he  proceeded,  turning  to  the  group. 
"  Quiet  an'  quick.  It 's  my  belief  'e  's  spyin'  for 
the  p'lice,  an'  wants  to  git  out  to  split  on  us. 
Question  is  'ow  to  do  for  'im?" 

Sotcher  rose,  a  staring  spectre.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  call,  but  there  came  forth  from  it 
only  a  dry  murmur.  Hands  were  across  his 
mouth  at  once,  and  he  was  forced  back  into 
the  corner.  One  suggested  a  clasp-knife  at  the 
throat,  another  a  stick  in  his  neckerchief,  twisted 
to  throttling-point.  But  in  the  end  it  was 
settled  that  it  would  be  simpler,  and  would 


156  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

better  destroy  all  traces,  to  despatch  him  in 
the  explosion  —  to  tie  him  to  the  canister,  in 
fact. 

A  convulsive  movement  under  the  men's  hands 
decided  them  to  throw  more  beer  on  Sotcher's 
face,  for  he  seemed  to  be  fainting.  Then  his 
pockets  were  invaded  by  Gunno  Poison,  who 
turned  out  each  in  succession.  "  You  won't 
'ave  no  use  for  money  where  you're  goin',''  he 
observed  callously;  "besides,  it  'ud  be  blowed 
to  bits  an'  no  use  to  nobody.  Look  at  the  bloke 
at  Greenwich,  'ow  'is  things  was  blowed  away. 
'Ullo!  'ere's  two  'arf-crowns  an'  some  tanners. 
Seven  an'  thrippence  altogether,  with  the  browns. 
This  is  the  bloke  wot  'ad  n't  got  no  funds. 
This '11  be  divided  on  free  an'  equal  principles 
to  'elp  pay  for  that  beer  you  've  wasted.  'Old 
up,  ol'  man  !  Think  o'  the  glory.  P'r'aps  you  're 
all  right,  but  it 's  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
an'  dead  blokes  can't  split  to  the  coppers.  An' 
you  mustn't  forget  the  glory.  You  'ave  to  shed 
blood  in  a  revolution,  an'  a  few  odd  lives  more 
or  less  don't  matter  —  not  a  single  damn.  Keep 
your  eye  on  the  bleed'n'  glory!  They'll  'ave 
photos  of  you  in  the  papers,  all  the  broken  bits 
in  a'eap,  fac-similiar  as  found  on  the  spot.  Wot 
a  comfort  that  '11  be  !  " 

But  the  doomed  creature  was  oblivious  —  pros- 
trate —  a  swooning  heap.  They  ran  a  piece  of 


THE  RED   COW   GROUP.  157 

clothes-line  under  his  elbows,  and  pulled  them 
together  tight.  They  then  hobbled  his  ankles, 
and  took  him  among  them  through  the  alley  and 
down  the  quiet  street,  singing  and  shouting 
their  loudest  as  they  went,  in  case  he  might 
sufficiently  recover  his  powers  to  call  for  help. 
But  he  did  not,  and  there  in  the  shadow,  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  gasometer,  they  flung  him  down 
with  a  parting  kick  and  a  barbarous  knock  on 
the  head,  to  keep  him  quiet  for  those  few  neces- 
sary moments.  Then  the  murderous  canister, 
bound  with  wire,  was  put  in  place;  the  extrud- 
ing touch-paper  was  set  going  with  a  match; 
and  the  Red  Cow  Anarchists  disappeared  at  a 
run,  leaving  their  victim  to  his  fate.  Presently 
the  policeman  on  that  beat  heard  a  sudden  report 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  gas-works,  and  ran 
to  see  what  it  might  mean. 

The  next  morning  Alfred  Sotcherwas  charged 
at  the  Thames  Police  Court  as  a  drunk  and  in- 
capable. He  had  been  found  in  a  helpless  state 
near  the  gas-works,  and  appeared  to  have  been 
tied  at  the  elbows  and  ankles  by  mischievous 
boys,  who  had  also,  it  seemed,  ignited  a  cracker 
near  by  where  he  lay.  The  divisional  surgeon 
stated  that  he  was  called  to  the  prisoner,  and 
found  him  tearful  and  incoherent,  and  smelling 
strongly  of  drink.  He  complained  of  having 


158  THE   RED   COW   GROUP. 

been  assaulted  in  a  public-house,  but  could  give 
no  intelligible  account  of  himself.  A  canister 
found  by  his  side  appeared  to  contain  a  mixture 
of  sand  and  castor  oil,  but  prisoner  could  not 
explain  how  it  came  there.  The  magistrate 
fined  him  five  shillings,  with  the  alternative  of 
seven  days,  and  as  he  had  no  money  he  was 
removed  to  the  cells. 


ON   THE   STAIRS, 


ON   THE   STAIRS. 

THE  house  had  been  "genteel."  When 
trade  was  prospering  in  the  East  End, 
and  the  ship-fitter  or  block-maker  thought  it  no 
shame  to  live  in  the  parish  where  his  workshop 
lay,  such  a  master  had  lived  here.  Now,  it  was 
a  tall,  solid,  well-bricked,  ugly  house,  grimy  and 
paintless  in  the  joinery,  cracked  and  patched 
in  the  windows:  where  the  front  door  stood  open 
all  day  long;  and  the  womankind  sat  on  the 
steps,  talking  of  sickness  and  deaths  and  the 
cost  of  things;  and  treacherous  holes  lurked  in 
the  carpet  of  road-soil  on  the  stairs  and  in  the 
passage.  For  when  eight  families  live  in  a 
house,  nobody  buys  a  door-mat,  and  the  street 
was  one  of  those  streets  that  are  always  muddy. 
It  smelt,  too,  of  many  things,  none  of  them 
pleasant  (one  was  fried  fish) ;  but  for  all  that  it 
was  not  a  slum. 

Three  flights  up,  a  gaunt  woman  with  bare 
forearms  stayed  on  her  way  to  listen  at  a  door 
which,  opening,  let  out  a  warm,  fetid  waft  from 
a  close  sick-room.  A  bent  and  tottering  old 

ii 


162  ON   THE   STAIRS. 

woman  stood  on  the  threshold,  holding  the  door 
behind  her. 

"An'  is  'e  no  better  now,  Mrs.  Curtis?"  the 
gaunt  woman  asked,  with  a  nod  at  the  opening. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  pulled 
the  door  closer.  Her  jaw  waggled  loosely  in 
her  withered  chaps:  "Nor  won't  be;  till  'e 's 
gone. "  Then  after  a  certain  pause,  "  'E 's  goin', " 
she  said. 

"Don't  doctor  give  no  'ope?  " 

"  Lor'  bless  ye,  I  don't  want  to  ast  no  doc- 
tors," Mrs.  Curtis  replied,  with  something  not 
unlike  a  chuckle.  "  I  've  seed  too  many  on 
'em.  The  boy's  a-goin',  fast ;  I  can  see  that.  An' 
then  "  —  she  gave  the  handle  another  tug,  and 
whispered  —  "he's  been  called."  She  nodded 
amain.  "  Three  seprit  knocks  at  the  bed-head 
las'  night ;  an'  I  know  what  that  means  !  " 

The  gaunt  woman  raised  her  brows,  and 
nodded.  "Ah,  well,"  she  said,  "we  all  on  us 
comes  to  it  some  day,  sooner  or  later.  An' 
it 's  often  a  'appy  release." 

The  two  looked  into  space  beyond  each  other, 
the  elder  with  a  nod  and  a  croak.  Presently 
the  other  pursued,  "'E  's  been  a  very  good  son, 
ain't  'e?" 

"Ay,  ay,  well  enough  son  to  me,"  responded 
the  old  woman,  a  little  peevishly;  "an'  I'll  'ave 
'im  put  away  decent,  though  there  's  on'y  the 


ON  THE   STAIRS.  163 

Union  for  me  after.  I  can  do  that,  thank 
Gawd ! "  she  added,  meditatively,  as  chin  on 
fist  she  stared  into  the  thickening  dark  over 
the  stairs. 

"When  I  lost  my  pore  'usband,"  said  the 
gaunt  woman,  with  a  certain  brightening,  "  I 
give  'im  a  'ansome  funeral.  'E  was  a  Odd- 
feller,  an'  I  got  twelve  pound.  I  'ad  a  oak 
caufin  an'  a  open  'earse.  There  was  a  kerridge 
for  the  fam'ly  an'  one  for  'is  mates  —  two  'orses 
each,  an'  feathers,  an'  mutes;  an'  it  went  the 
furthest  way  round  to  the  cimitry.  '  'Wotever 
'appens,  Mrs.  Manders,'  says  the  undertaker, 
'you'll  feel  as  you're  treated  'im  proper;  no- 
body can't  reproach  you  over  that. '  An'  they 
could  n't.  'E  was  a  good  'usband  to  me,  an'  I 
buried  'im  respectable." 

The  gaunt  woman  exulted.  The  old,  old 
story  of  Manders's  funeral  fell  upon  the  other 
one's  ears  with  a  freshened  interest,  and  she 
mumbled  her  gums  ruminantly.  "  Bob  '11  'ave 
a  'ansome  buryin',  too,"  she  said.  "I  can 
make  it  up,  with  the  insurance  money,  an'  this, 
an'  that.  On'y  I  dunno  about  mutes.  It 's  a 
expense." 

In  the  East  End,  when  a  woman  has  not 
enough  money  to  buy  a  thing  much  desired,  she 
does  not  say  so  in  plain  words;  she  says  the 
thing  is  an  "expense,"  or  a  "great  expense." 


1 64  ON  THE   STAIRS. 

It  means  the  same  thing,  but  it  sounds  better. 
Mrs.  Curtis  had  reckoned  her  resources,  and 
found  that  mutes  would  be  an  "expense."  At 
a  cheap  funeral  mutes  cost  half-a-sovereign 
and  their  liquor.  Mrs.  Manders  said  as  much. 

"Yus,  yus,  'arf-a-sovereign,"  the  old  woman 
assented.  Within,  the  sick  man  feebly  beat  the 
floor  with  a  stick.  "I'm  a-comin',"  she  cried 
shrilly;  "yus,  'arf-a-sovereign,  but  it 's  a  lot,  an' 
I  don't  see  'ow  I  'm  to  do  it  —  not  at  present." 
She  reached  for  the  door-handle  again,  but 
stopped  and  added,  by  after-thought,  "  Unless  I 
don't  'ave  no  plooms." 

"  It  'ud  be  a  pity  not  to  'ave  plooms.  I 
'ad  —  " 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairs :  then  a 
stumble  and  a  testy  word.  Mrs.  Curtis  peered 
over  into  the  gathering  dark.  "Is  it  the  doctor, 
sir?  "  she  asked.  It  was  the  doctor's  assistant; 
and  ,Mrs.  Manders  tramped  up  to  the  next  land- 
ing as  the  door  of  the  sick-room  took  him  in. 

For  five  minutes  the  stairs  were  darker  than 
ever.  Then  the  assistant,  a  very  young  man, 
came  out  again,  followed  by  the  old  woman  with 
a  candle.  Mrs.  Manders  listened  in  the  upper 
dark.  "He's  sinking  fast,"  said  the  assistant. 
"  He  must  have  a  stimulant.  Dr.  Mansell,  or- 
dered port  wine.  Where  is  it  ?  "  Mrs.  Curtis 
mumbled  dolorously.  "  I  tell  vou  he  must  have 


ON  THE   STAIRS.  165 

it,"  he  averred  with  unprofessional  emphasis 
(his  qualification  was  only  a  month  old).  "The 
man  can't  take  solid  food,  and  his  strength  must 
be  kept  up  somehow.  Another  day  may  make 
all  the  difference.  Is  it  because  you  can't  afford 
it  ?  "  "  It 's  a  expense  —  sich  a  expense,  doctor," 
the  old  woman  pleaded.  "An'  wot  with  'arf- 
pints  o'  milk  an'  — "  She  grew  inarticulate, 
and  mumbled  dismally. 

"  But  he  must  have  it,  Mrs.  Curtis,  if  it 's 
your  last  shilling:  it's  the  only  way.  If  you 
mean  you  absolutely  have  n't  the  money  — " 
And  he  paused  a  little  awkwardly.  He  was 
not  a  wealthy  young  man  —  wealthy  young  men 
do  not  devil  for  East  End  doctors  —  but  he  was 
conscious  of  a  certain  haul  of  sixpences  at  nap 
the  night  before;  and,  being  inexperienced,  he 
did  not  foresee  the  career  of  persecution  where- 
on he  was  entering  at  his  own  expense  and  of 
his  own  motion.  He  produced  five  shillings: 
"If  you  absolutely  have  n't  the  money,  why  — 
take  this  and  get  a  bottle  —  good :  not  at  a 
public-house.  But  mind,  at  once.  He  should 
have  had  it  before." 

It  would  have  interested  him,  as  a  matter  of 
coincidence,  to  know  that  his  principal  had 
been  guilty  of  the  selfsame  indiscretion  —  even 
the  amount  was  identical  —  on  that  landing  the 
day  before.  But,  as  Mrs.  Curtis  said  nothing 


1 66  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

of  this,  he  floundered  down  the  stair  and  out 
into  the  wetter  mud,  pondering  whether  or  not 
the  beloved  son  of  a  Congregational  minister 
might  take  full  credit  for  a  deed  of  charity  on 
the  proceeds  of  sixpenny  nap.  But  Mrs.  Curtis 
puffed  her  wrinkles,  and  shook  her  head  saga- 
ciously as  she  carried  in  her  candle.  From  the 
room  came  a  clink  as  of  money  falling  into  a 
teapot.  And  Mrs.  Manders  went  about  her 
business. 

The  door  was  shut,  and  the  stair  a  pit  of 
blackness.  Twice  a  lodger  passed  down,  and 
up  and  down,  and  still  it  did  not  open.  Men 
and  women  walked  on  the  lower  flights,  and  out 
at  the  door,  and  in  again.  From  the  street  a 
shout  or  a  snatch  of  laughter  floated  up  the  pit. 
On  the  pavement  footsteps  rang  crisper  and 
fewer,  and  from  the  bottom  passage  there  were 
sounds  of  stagger  and  sprawl.  A  demented  old 
clock  buzzed  divers  hours  at  random,  and  was 
rebuked  every  twenty  minutes  by  the  regular 
tread  of  a  policeman  on  his  beat.  Finally, 
somebody  shut  the  street-door  with  a  great  bang, 
and  the  street  was  muffled.  A  key  turned  in- 
side the  door  on  the  landing,  but  that  was  all. 
A  feeble  light  shone  for  hours  along  the  crack 
below,  and  then  went  out.  The  crazy  old  clock 
went  buzzing  on,  but  nothing  left  that  room  all 
night.  Nothing  that  opened  the  door.  .  .  . 


ON  THE   STAIRS.  167 

When  next  the  key  turned,  it  was  to  Mrs. 
Manders's  knock,  in  the  full  morning;  and 
soon  the  two  women  came  out  on  the  landing 
together,  Mrs.  Curtis  with  a  shapeless  clump  of 
bonnet.  "Ah,  'e 's  a  lovely  corpse,"  said  Mrs. 
Manders.  "Like  wax.  So  was  my'usband. " 

"I  must  be  stirrin',"  croaked  the  old  woman, 
"an'  go  about  the  insurance  an'  the  measurin' 
an'  that.  There  's  lots  to  do." 

"Ah,  there  is.  'Oo  are  you  goin'  to  'ave,  — 
Wilkins?  I 'ad  Wilkins.  Better  than  Kedge, 
/think:  Kedge's  mutes  dresses  rusty,  an' their 
trousis  is  frayed.  If  you  was  thinkin'  of  'avin' 
mutes  —  " 

"  Yus,  yus, "  —  with  a  palsied  nodding,  —  "  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  'ave  mutes :  I  can  do  it  respectable, 
thank  Gawd !  " 

"And  the   plooms?  " 

"Ay,  yus,  and  the  plooms  too.  They  ain't 
sich  a  great  expense,  after  all." 


SQUIRE   NAPPER. 


SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

I. 

BILL  NAPPER  was  a  heavy  man  of  some- 
thing between  thirty-five  and  forty.  His 
moleskin  trousers  were  strapped  below  the  knees, 
and  he  wore  his  coat  loose  on  his  back,  with  the 
sleeves  tied  across  his  chest.  The  casual  ob- 
server set  him  down  a  navvy,  but  Mrs.  Napper 
punctiliously  made  it  known  that  he  was  "in 
the  paving";  which  meant  that  he  was  a  pavior. 
He  lived  in  Canning  Town,  and  was  on  a  foot- 
path job  at  West  Ham  (Allen  was  the  contrac- 
tor) when  he  won  and  began  to  wear  the  nick- 
name "  Squire." 

Daily  at  the  stroke  of  twelve  from  the  neigh- 
boring church,  Bill  Napper 's  mates  let  drop 
rammer,  trowel,  spade,  and  pick,  and  turned 
toward  a  row  of  basins,  tied  in  blue-and-red 
handkerchiefs,  and  accompanied  of  divers  tin 
cans  with  smoky  bottoms.  Bill  himself  looked 
toward  the  street  corner  for  the  punctual  Polly 
bearing  his  own  dinner  fresh  and  hot;  for  home 


1^2  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

was  not  far,  and  Polly,  being  thirteen,  had  no 
school  now. 

One  day  Polly  was  nearly  ten  minutes  late. 
Bill,  at  first  impatient,  grew  savage,  and 
thought  wrathfully  on  the  strap  on  its  nail  by 
the  kitchen-dresser.  But  at  the  end  of  the  ten 
minutes  Polly  came,  bringing  a  letter  as  well  as 
the  basin-load  of  beef  and  cabbage.  A  young 
man  had  left  it,  she  said,  after  asking  many 
ill-mannered  questions.  The  letter  was  ad- 
dressed "W.  Napper,  Esq.,"  with  a  flourish; 
the  words,  "By  hand,"  stood  in  the  corner  of 
the  envelope;  and  on  the  flap  at  the  back  were 
the  embossed  characters  "T.  &  N."  These 
things  Bill  Napper  noted  several  times  over, 
as  he  turned  the  letter  about  in  his  hand. 

"Seems  to  me  you'll  'ave  to  open  it  after 
all,"  said  one  of  Bill's  mates;  and  he  opened  it, 
setting  back  his  hat  as  a  preparation  to  serious 
study.  The  letter  was  dated  from  Old  Jewry, 
and  ran  thus :  — 

"  Re  B.  NAPPER  deceased. 

"  DEAR  SIR,  —  We  have  a  communication  in 
this  matter  from  our  correspondents  at  Sydney, 
New  South  Wales,  in  respect  to  testamentary 
dispositions  under  which  you  benefit.  We  shall 
be  obliged  if  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  call 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  1/3 

at  this  office  any  day  except  Saturday  between 
two  and  four.  —  Your  obedient  servants, 

"TIMS  &  NORTON." 

The  dinner  hour  had  gone  by  before  the  full 
inner  meaning  had  been  wrested  from  this  let- 
ter. "B.  Napper  deceased"  Bill  accepted,  with 
a  little  assistance,  as  an  announcement  of  the 
death  of  his  brother  Ben,  who  had  gone  to  Aus- 
tralia nearly  twenty  years  ago,  and  had  been 
forgotten.  "  Testamentary  dispositions  "  nobody 
would  tackle  with  confidence,  although  its  dis- 
tinct suggestion  of  biblical  study  was  duly  re- 
marked. "  Benefit "  was  right  enough,  and  led 
one  of  the  younger  men,  after  some  thought,  to 
the  opinion  that  Bill  Napper's  brother  might 
have  left  him  something:  a  theory  instantly 
accepted  as  the  most  probable,  although  some 
thought  it  foolish  of  him  not  to  leave  it  direct 
instead  of  authorizing  the  interference  of  a  law- 
yer, who  would  want  to  do  Bill  out  of  it. 

Bill  Napper  put  up  his  tools  and  went  home. 
There  the  missis  put  an  end  to  doubt  by  repeat- 
ing what  the  lawyer's  clerk  said:  which  was 
nothing  more  definite  than  that  Bill  had  been 
"  left  a  bit " ;  and  the  clerk  only  acknowledged 
so  much  when  he  had  satisfied  himself,  by  sinu- 
ous questionings,  that  he  had  found  the  real  lega- 
tee. He  further  advised  the  bringing  of  certain 


174  SQUIRE   NAPPER. 

evidence  on  the  visit  to  the  office.  Thus  it  was 
plain  that  the  Napper  fortunes  were  in  good 
case,  for,  as  "a  bit"  means  money  all  the  world 
over,  the  thing  was  clearly  no  worthless  keep- 
sake. 


II. 


On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  Bill  Napper, 
in  clean  moleskins  and  black  coat,  made  for  Old 
Jewry.  On  mature  consideration  he  had  decided 
to  go  through  it  alone.  There  was  not  merely 
one  lawyer,  which  would  be  bad  enough,  but 
two  of  them  in  a  partnership;  and  to  take  the 
missis,  whose  intellects,  being  somewhat  flighty, 
were  quickly  divertible  by  the  palaver  of  which 
a  lawyer  was  master,  would  be  to  distract  and 
impede  his  own  faculties.  A  male  friend  might 
not  have  been  so  bad,  but  Bill  could  not  call  to 
mind  one  quite  cute  enough  to  be  of  any  use, 
and  in  any  case  such  a  friend  would  have  to  be 
paid  for  the  loss  of  his  day's  work.  Moreover, 
he  might  imagine  himself  to  hold  a  sort  of 
interest  in  the  proceeds.  So  Bill  Napper  went 
alone. 

Having  waited  the  proper  time  without  the 
bar  in  the  clerk's  office,  he  was  shown  into  a 
room  where  a  middle-aged  man  sat  at  a  writing- 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  1/5 

table.  There  was  no  other  lawyer  to  be  seen. 
This  was  a  stratagem  for  which  Bill  Napper  was 
not  prepared.  He  looked  suspiciously  about 
the  room,  but  without  discovering  anything  that 
looked  like  a  hiding-place.  Plainly  there  were 
two  lawyers,  because  their  names  were  on  the 
door  and  on  the  letter  itself;  and  the  letter 
said  we.  Why  one  should  hide  it  was  hard  to 
guess,  unless  it  were  to  bear  witness  to  some 
unguarded  expression.  Bill  Napper  resolved  to 
speak  little,  and  not  loud. 

The  lawyer  addressed  him  affably,  inviting 
him  to  sit.  Then  he  asked  to  see  the  papers 
that  Bill  had  brought.  These  were  an  old  tes- 
timonial reciting  that  Bill  had  been  employed 
"with  his  brother  Benjamin"  as  a  boy  in  a 
brick-field,  and  had  given  satisfaction ;  a  letter 
from  a  parish  guardian,  the  son  of  an  old  em- 
ployer of  Bill's  father,  certifying  that  Bill  was 
his  father's  son  and  his  brother's  brother; 
copies  of  the  birth  registry  of  both  Bill  and 
his  brother,  procured  that  morning;  and  a  let- 
ter from  Australia,  the  last  word  from  Benja- 
min, dated  eighteen  years  back.  These  Bill 
produced  in  succession,  keeping  a  firm  grip  on 
each  as  he  placed  it  beneath  the  lawyer's  nose. 
The  lawyer  behaved  somewhat  testily  under  this 
restraint,  but  Bill  knew  better  than  to  let  the 
papers  out  of  his  possession,  and  would  not  be 
done. 


SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

When  he  had  seen  all,  "Well,  Mr.  Napper," 
said  the  lawyer,  rather  snappishly  (obviously  he 
was  balked),  "these  things  seem  all  right,  and 
with  the  inquiries  I  have  already  made  I  sup- 
pose I  may  proceed  to  pay  you  the  money.  It 
is  a  legacy  of  three  hundred  pounds.  Your 
brother  was  married,  and  I  believe  his  business 
and  other  property  goes  to  his  wife  and  children. 
The  money  is  intact,  the  estate  paying  legacy 
duty  and  expenses.  In  cases  of  this  sort  there 
is  sometimes  an  arrangement  for  the  amount  to 
be  paid  a  little  at  a  time  as  required;  that,  how- 
ever, I  judge,  would  not  be  an  arrangement  to 
please  you.  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  you  will  be 
able  to  invest  the  money  in  a  profitable  way. 
I  will  draw  a  check." 

Three  hundred  pounds  was  beyond  Bill  Nap- 
per's  wildest  dreams.  But  he  would  not  be 
dazzled  out  of  his  caution.  Presently  the  law- 
yer tore  the  check  from  the  book,  and  pushed  it 
across  the  table  with  another  paper.  He  offered 
Bill  a  pen,  pointing  with  his  other  hand  at  the 
bottom  of  the  second  paper,  and  saying,  "This 
is  the  receipt.  Sign  just  there,  please." 

Bill  took  up  the  check,  but  made  no  move- 
ment toward  the  pen.  "Receipt?"  he  grunted 
softly ;  "  receipt  wot  for  ?  I  ain't  'ad  no  money. " 

"There  's  the  check  in  your  hand —  the  same 
thing.  It  's  an  order  to  the  bank  to  hand  you 


SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

the  amount  —  the  usual  way  of  paying  money 
in  business  affairs.  If  you  would  rather  have 
the  money  paid  here,  I  can  send  a  clerk  to  the 
bank  to  get  it.  Give  me  the  check." 

But  again  Bill  was  not  to  be  done.  The  law- 
yer, finding  him  sharper  than  he  expected,  now 
wanted  to  get  this  tricky  piece  of  paper  back. 
So  Bill  only  grinned  at  him,  keeping  a  good 
hold  of  the  check.  The  lawyer  lost  his  tem- 
per. "Why,  damn  it,"  he  said,  "you  're  a  curi- 
ous person  to  deal  with.  D'  ye  want  the  money 
and  the  check  too  ?  " 

He  rang  a  bell  twice,  and  a  clerk  appeared. 
"Mr.  Dixon,"  said  the  lawyer,  "I  have  given 
this  person  a  check  for  three  hundred  pounds. 
Just  take  him  round  to  the  bank,  and  get  it 
cashed.  Let  him  sign  the  receipt  at  the  bank. 
I  suppose,"  he  added,  turning  to  Bill,  "that  you 
won't  object  to  giving  a  receipt  when  you  get  the 
money,  eh?  " 

Bill  Napper,  conscious  of  his  victory,  ex- 
pressed his  willingness  to  do  the  proper  thing 
at  the  proper  time,  and  went  out  with  the  clerk. 
At  the  bank  there  was  little  difficulty,  except  at 
the  clerk's  advice  to  take  the  money  chiefly  in 
notes,  which  instantly  confirmed  Bill  in  a  deter- 
mination to  accept  nothing  but  gold.  When 
all  was  done,  and  the  three  hundred  sovereigns, 
carefully  counted  over  for  the  third  and  fourth 

12 


178  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

time,  were  stowed  in  small  bags  about  his  per- 
son, Bill,  much  relieved  after  his  spell  of 
watchfulness,  insisted  on  standing  the  clerk  a 
drink. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "all  you  City  lawyers  an' 
clurks  are  pretty  bleed'n'  sharp,  I  know,  but 
you  ain't  done  me,  an'  /don't  bear  no  malice. 
'Ave  wot  you  like —  'ave  wine  or  a  six  o'  Irish 
—  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  stingy.  I  'm  goin'  to  do 
it  open  an'  free,  I  am,  an'  set  a  example  to  men 
o'  property." 


III. 


Bill  Napper  went  home  in  a  hansom,  ordering 
a  barrel  of  beer  on  the  way.  One  of  the  chief 
comforts  of  affluence  is  that  you  may  have  beer 
in  by  the  barrel;  for  then  Sundays  and  closing 
times  vex  not,  and  you  have  but  to  reach  the 
length  of  your  arm  for  another  pot  whenever 
moved  thereunto.  Nobody  in  Canning  Town 
had  beer  by  the  barrel  except  the  tradesmen, 
and  for  that  Bill  had  long  envied  the  man  who 
kept  shop.  And  now,  at  his  first  opportunity, 
he  bought  a  barrel  of  thirty-six  gallons. 

Once  home  with  the  news,  and  Canning  Town 
was  ablaze.  Bill  Napper  had  come  in  for  three 
thousand,  thirty  thousand,  three  hundred  thou- 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  179 

sand  —  any  number  of  thousands  that  were 
within  the  compass  of  the  gossip's  command  of 
enumeration.  Bill  Napper  was  called  "W. 
Napper,  Esq." — he  was  to  be  knighted  —  he 
was  a  long-lost  baronet  —  anything.  Bill  Napper 
came  home  in  a  hansom  —  a  brougham  —  a 
state  coach. 

Mrs.  Napper  went  that  very  evening  to  the 
Grove  at  Stratford  to  buy  silk  and  satin,  green, 
red,  and  yellow  —  cutting  her  neighbors  dead, 
right  and  left.  And  by  the  next  morning  trades- 
men had  sent  circulars  and  samples  of  goods. 
Mrs.  Napper  was  for  taking  a  proper  position 
in  society,  and  a  house  in  a  fashionable  part — • 
Barking  Road,  for  instance,  or  even  East  India 
Road,  Poplar;  but  Bill  would  none  of  such  fool- 
ishness. He  was  n't  proud,  and  Canning  Town 
was  quite  good  enough  for  him.  This  much, 
though,  he  conceded :  that  the  family  should 
take  a  whole  house  of  five  rooms  in  the  next 
street,  instead  of  the  two  rooms  and  a  cellule 
upstairs  now  rented. 

That  morning  Bill  lit  his  pipe,  stuck  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  strolled  as  far  as  his 
job.  "Wayo,  squire,"  shouted  one  of  the  men 
as  he  approached.  "'Ere  comes  the  bleed'n' 
toff,"  remarked  another. 

"  'Tcheer,  'tcheer,  mates,"  Bill  responded, 
calmly  complacent.  "I'm  a-goin'  to  wet  it." 


180  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

And  all  the  fourteen  men  left  their  paving  for 
the  beer-house  close  by.  The  foreman  made 
some  demur,  but  was  helpless,  and  ended  by 
coming  himself.  "Now  then,  gaffer,"  said  Bill, 
"none  o'  your  sulks.  No  one  ain't  a-goin'  to 
stand  out  of  a  drink  o'  mine  —  unless  'e  wants 
to  fight.  As  for  the  job  —  damn  the  job  !  I  'd 
buy  up  fifty  jobs  like  that  'ere  and  not  stop  for 
the  change.  You  send  the  guv'nor  to  me  if  'e 
says  anythink:  unnerstand?  You  send  'im  to 
me."  And  he  laid  hands  on  the  foreman,  who 
was  not  a  big  man,  and  hauled  him  after  the 
others. 

They  wetted  it  for  two  or  three  hours,  from 
many  quart  pots.  Then  there  appeared  between 
the  swing  doors  the  wrathful  face  of  the  guv'nor. 

The  guv'nor's  position  was  difficult.  He  was 
only  a  small  master,  and  but  a  few  years  back 
had  been  a  working  mason.  This  deserted  job 
was  his  first  for  the  parish,  and  by  contract 
he  was  bound  to  end  it  quickly  under  penalty. 
Moreover,  he  much  desired  something  on  ac- 
count that  week,  and  must  stand  well  with  the 
vestry.  On  the  other  hand,  this  was  a  time  of 
strikes,  and  the  air  was  electrical.  Several 
large  and  successful  movements  had  quickened 
a  spirit  of  restlessness  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
no  master  was  sure  of  his  men.  Some  slight  was 
fancied,  something  was  not  done  as  it  should 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  l8l 

have  been  done  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
workshop,  and  there  was  a  strike,  picketing, 
and  bashing.  Now,  the  worst  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  the  guv'nor  at  this  moment 
was  one  of  those  tiny,  unrecorded  strikes  that 
were  bursting  out  weekly  and  daily  about  him, 
with  the  picketing  of  his  two  or  three  jobs. 
Furious,  therefore,  as  he  was,  he  dared  not  dis- 
charge every  man  on  the  spot.  So  he  stood  in 
the  door,  and  said:  "Look  here,  I  won't  stand 
this  sort  of  thing — it's  a  damn  robbery. 
I'll  —  " 

"That  's  all  right,  ol'  cock,"  roared  Bill  Nap- 
per,  reaching  toward  the  guv'nor.  "You  come 
'an  'ave  a  tiddley.  I  'm  a  bleed'n'  millionaire 
meself  now,  but  I  ain't  proud.  What,  you 
won't  ?  "  -  for  the  guv'nor,  unenthusiastic,  re- 
mained at  the  door.  "You're  a  sulky  old 
bleeder.  These  'ere  friends  o'  mine  are  'avin' 
'arf  a  day  auf  at  my  expense :  unnerstand  ?  My 
expense.  I  'm  a-payin'  for  their  time,  if  you 
dock  'em;  an'  I  can  give  you  a  bob,  me  fine 
feller,  if  you're  'ard  up.  See?" 

The  guv'nor  addressed  himself  to  the  fore- 
man. "What's  the  meaning  o'  this,  Walker?  " 
he  said.  "  What  game  d'  ye  call  it  ?  " 

Bill  Napper,  whom  a  succession  of  pots  had 
made  uproarious,  slapped  the  foreman  violently 
on  the  shoulder.  "This  'ere 's  the  gaffer,"  he 


l82  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

shouted.  "'E's  all  right.  'E  come  'ere  'cos  'e 
couldn't  'elp 'isself.  I  made  'im  come,  forcible. 
Don't  you  bear  no  spite  agin'  the  gaffer, 
d'y'ear?  'E's  my  mate,  is  the  gaffer;  an'  I 
could  buy  you  up  forty  times,  s'elp  me  —  but 
I  ain't  proud.  An'  you  're  a  bleed'n'  gawblimy 
slackbaked  ..." 

"Well,"  said  the  guv'nor  to  the  assembled 
company,  but  still  ignoring  Bill,  "don't  you 
think  there's  been  about  enough  of  this?" 

A  few  of  the  men  glanced  at  one  another,  and 
one  or  two  rose.  "  Awright,  guv'nor,"  said  one, 
"  we  're  auf. "  And  two  more  echoed,  "  Awright, 
guv'nor,"  and  began  to  move  away. 

"Ah!"  said  Bill  Napper,  with  disgust,  as  he 
turned  to  finish  his  pot,  "you  're  a  blasted  nig- 
ger-driver, you  are.  An'  a  sulky  beast,"  he 
added  as  he  set  the  pot  down.  "Never  mind," 
he  pursued,  "  /  *m  awright,  an'  I  ain't  a  'arf-paid 
kerb-whacker  no  more,  under  you." 

"  You  was  a  damn  sight  better  kerb-whacker 
than  you  are  a  millionaire,"  the  guv'nor  re- 
torted, feeling  safer  now  that  his  men  were 
getting  back  to  work. 

"None  o'  your  lip,"  replied  Bill,  rising  and 
reaching  for  a  pipe-spill :  "none  o'  your  lip,  you 
work'us  stone-breaker."  Then,  turning  with  a 
sudden  access  of  fury,  "I  '11  knock  yer  face  off, 
blimy!"  he  shouted,  and  raised  his  fist. 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  183 

"Now,  then,  none  o'  that  here,  please,"  cried 
the  landlord  from  behind  the  bar;  unto  whom 
Bill  Napper,  with  all  his  wonted  obedience  in 
that  quarter,  answered  only,  "All  right,  guv'- 
nor, "  and  subsided. 

Left  alone,  he  soon  followed  the  master-pavior 
and  his  men  through  the  swing  doors,  and  so 
went  home.  In  his  own  street,  observing  two 
small  boys  in  the  prelusory  stages  of  a  fight,  he 
put  up  sixpence  by  way  of  stakes,  and  super- 
vised the  battle  from  the  seat  afforded  by  a  con- 
venient window-sill.  After  that  he  bought  a 
morning  paper,  and  lay  upon  his  bed  to  read  it, 
with  a  pipe  and  a  jug;  for  he  was  beginning  a 
life  of  leisure  and  comfort,  wherein  every  day 
should  be  a  superior  Sunday. 


IV. 


Thus  far  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the 
Napper  wealth  were  these:  the  separate  house; 
the  barrel  of  beer;  a  piano  —  not  bought  as  a 
musical  instrument,  but  as  one  of  the  visible 
signs;  a  daily  paper,  also  primarily  a  sign;  the 
bonnets  and  dresses  of  the  missis;  and  the  per- 
petual possession  of  Bill  Napper  by  a  varying 
degree  of  fuddlement.  An  inward  and  dis- 
sembled sign  was  a  regiment,  continually  rein- 


1 84  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

forced,  of  mostly  empty  bottles,  in  a  cupboard 
kept  sacred  by  the  missis.  And  the  faculties 
of  that  good  lady  herself  experienced  a  fluctu- 
ating confusion  from  causes  not  always  made 
plain  to  Bill :  for  the  money  was  kept  in  the 
bedroom  chest  of  drawers,  and  it  was  easy  to 
lay  hands  on  a  half-sovereign  as  required  without 
unnecessary  disturbance. 

Now  and  again  Bill  Napper  would  discuss  the 
abstract  question  of  entering  upon  some  invest- 
ment or  business  pursuit.  Land  had  its  advan- 
tages; great  advantages;  and  he  had  been  told 
that  it  was  very  cheap  just  now,  in  some  places. 
Houses  were  good,  too,  and  a  suitable  posses- 
sion for  a  man  of  consideration.  Not  so  desir- 
able on  the  whole,  however,  as  Land.  You 
bought  your  Land  and  —  well  there  it  was,  and 
you  could  take  things  easily.  But  with  Houses 
there  was  rent  to  collect,  and  repairs  to  see  to, 
and  so  forth.  It  was  a  vastly  paying  thing  for 
any  man  with  capital  to  be  a  Merchant;  but 
there  was  work  even  in  that,  and  you  had  to  be 
perpetually  on  guard  against  sharp  chaps  in  the 
City.  A  public-house,  suggested  by  one  of  his 
old  mates  on  the  occasion  of  wetting  it,  was 
out  of  the  question.  There  was  tick,  and  long 
hours,  and  a  sharp  look-out,  and  all  kinds  of 
trouble,  which  a  man  with  money  would  be  a 
fool  to  encounter.  Altogether,  perhaps,  Land 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  185 

seemed  to  be  the  thing:  although  there  was  no 
need  to  bother  now,  and  plenty  of  time  to  turn 
things  over,  even  if  the  matter  were  worth  pon- 
dering at  all,  when  it  was  so  easy  for  a  man  to 
live  on  his  means.  After  all,  to  take  your 
boots  off,  and  lie  on  the  bed  with  a  pipe  and  a 
pot  and  the  paper  was  very  comfortable,  and 
you  could  always  stroll  out  and  meet  a  mate, 
or  bring  him  in  when  so  disposed. 

Of  an  evening  the  Albert  Music  Hall  was 
close  at  hand,  and  the  Queen's  not  very  far 
away.  And  on  Sundays  and  Saturday  after- 
noons Bill  would  often  take  a  turn  down  by  the 
dock  gates,  or  even  in  Victoria  Park,  or  Mile 
End  Waste,  where  there  were  speakers  of  all 
sorts.  At  the  dock  gates  it  was  mostly  Labor 
and  Anarchy,  but  at  the  other  places  there  was 
a  fine  variety;  you  could  always  be  sure  of  a  few 
minutes  of  Teetotalism,  Evangelism,  Atheism, 
Republicanism,  Salvationism,  Socialism,  Anti- 
Vaccinationism,  and  Social  Purity,  with  now 
and  again  some  Mormonism  or  another  curious 
exotic.  Most  of  the  speakers  denounced  some- 
thing, and  if  the  denunciations  of  one  speaker 
were  not  sufficiently  picturesque  and  lively, 
you  passed  on  to  the  next.  Indeed,  you  might 
always  judge  afar  off  where  the  best  denouncing 
was  going  on  by  the  size  of  the  crowds,  at  least 
until  ^he  hat  went  round. 


1 86  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

It  was  at  Mile  End  Waste  that  a  good  notion 
occurred  to  Bill  Napper.  He  had  always  vastly 
admired  the  denunciations  of  one  speaker  —  a 
little  man,  shabbier,  if  anything,  than  most  of 
the  others,  and  surpassingly  tempestuous  of 
antic.  He  was  an  unattached  orator,  not  con- 
fining himself  to  any  particular  creed,  but 
denouncing  whatever  seemed  advisable,  con- 
sidering the  audience  and  circumstances.  He 
was  always  denouncing  something  somewhere, 
and  was  ever  in  a  crisis  that  demanded  the  cir- 
culation of  a  hat.  Bill  esteemed  this  speaker 
for  his  versatility  as  well  as  for  the  freshness 
of  his  abuse,  and  Bill's  sudden  notion  was  to 
engage  him  for  private  addresses. 

The  orator  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  proposal 
at  first,  strongly  suspecting  something  in  the 
nature  of  "guy"  or  "kid";  but  a  serious  assur- 
ance of  a  shilling  for  an  occasional  hour  and  the 
payment  of  one  in  advance  brought  him  over. 
After  this  Squire  Napper  never  troubled  to  go 
to  Mile  End  Waste.  He  sat  at  ease  in  his  par- 
lor, with  his  pot  on  the  piano,  while  the  orator, 
with  another  pot  on  the  mantelpiece,  stood  up 
and  denounced  to  order.  "Tip  us  the  Teetotal 
an'  Down-with-the-Public-'Ouse,"  Bill  would 
request,  and  the  orator  (his  name  was  Minns) 
would  oblige  in  that  line  till  most  of  the  strong 
phrases  had  run  out,  and  had  begun  to  recur. 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  187 

Then  Bill  would  say,  "Now  come  the  Rights 
o'  Labor  caper."  Whereupon  Minns  would  take 
a  pull  at  the  pot,  and  proceed  to  denounce  Cap- 
ital, Bill  Napper  applauding  or  groaning  at  the 
pauses  provided  for  those  purposes.  And  so  on 
with  whatever  subjects  appealed  to  the  patron's 
fancy.  It  was  a  fancy  that  sometimes  put  the 
orator's  invention  to  grievous  straits;  but  for 
Bill  the  whole  performance  was  peculiarly  privi- 
leged and  dignified.  For  to  have  an  orator  ges- 
ticulating and  speechifying  all  to  one's  self,  on 
one's  own  order  and  choice  of  subject,  is  a  thing 
not  given  to  all  men. 

One  day  Minns  turned  up  (not  having  been 
invited)  with  a  friend.  Bill  did  not  take  to  the 
friend.  He  was  a  lank-jawed  man  with  a  shifty 
eye,  who  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  showed  a  top 
row  of  irregular  and  dirty  teeth.  This  friend, 
Minns  explained,  was  a  journalist  —  a  writer  of 
newspapers;  and  between  them  they  had  an 
idea,  which  idea  the  friend  set  forth.  Every- 
body, he  said,  who  knew  the  history  of  Mr. 
Napper  admired  his  sturdy  independence  and 
democratic  simplicity.  He  was  of  the  people 
and  not  ashamed  of  it.  ("Well,  no,  I  ain't 
proud,"  Bill  interjected,  wondering  what  was 
coming.)  With  all  the  advantages  of  wealth, 
he  preferred  to  remain  one  of  the  people,  living 
among  them  plainly,  conforming  to  their  simple 


1 88  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

habits,  and  sympathizing  with  their  sorrows. 
("This  chap,"  thought  Bill,  "wants  to  be  took 
on  to  hold  forth  turn  about  with  the  other,  and 
he's  showing  his  capers;  but  I  ain't  on  it.") 
It  was  the  knowledge  of  these  things,  so  greatly 
to  Mr.  Napper's  honor,  that  had  induced  Minns 
and  Minns's  friend  to  place  before  him  a  means 
by  which  he  might  do  the  cause  of  toiling 
humanity  a  very  great  service.  A  new  weekly 
paper  was  wanted  —  wanted  very  badly :  a  paper 
that  should  rear  its  head  on  behalf  of  the  down- 
trodden toilers,  and  make  its  mighty  voice  heard 
with  dread  by  the  bloated  circles  of  Class  and 
Privilege.  That  paper  would  prove  a  mar- 
vellously paying  investment  to  its  proprietor, 
bringing  him  enormous  profits  every  week.  He 
would  have  a  vast  fortune  in  that  paper  alone, 
besides  the  glory  and  satisfaction  of  striking 
the  great  blow  that  should  pave  the  way  to  the 
emancipation  of  the  Masses  and  the  destruction 
of  the  vile  system  of  society  whose  whole  and 
sole  effect  was  the  accumulation  of  wealth  in 
the  hands  of  the  Grasping  Few.  Being  profes- 
sionally disengaged  at  present,  he  (the  speaker), 
in  conjunction  with  his  friend  Minns,  had  de- 
cided to  give  Mr.  Napper  the  opportunity  of 
becoming  its  proprietor. 

Bill  was  more  than  surprised :  he  was  also  a 
little  bewildered.      "What,"  he  said,  after  two 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  189 

draws  of  his  pipe,  "d'ye  mean  you  want  me  to 
go  in  the  printin'  line?  " 

That  was  not  at  all  necessary.  The  printing 
would  be  done  by  contract.  Mr.  Napper  would 
only  have  to  find  the  money.  The  paper,  with 
a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  behind  it  —  or 
even  one  thousand  (Minns's  friend  read  a  diffi- 
culty in  Bill's  face)  — would  be  established  for- 
ever. Even  five  hundred  would  do,  and  many 
successful  papers  had  been  floated  with  no  more 
than  a  couple  of  hundred  or  so.  Suppose  they 
said  just  a  couple  of  hundred  to  go  on  with,  till 
the  paper  found  its  legs  and  began  to  pay? 
How  would  that  do? 

Bill  Napper  smoked  a  dozen  whiffs.  Then 
he  said:  "An'  what  should  I  'ave  to  do  with 
the  two  'undred  pound?  Buy  anythink?  " 

Not  directly  that,  the  promoters  explained. 
It  would  finance  the  thing  —  just  finance  it. 

"'Oo  'd  'ave  the  money  then?  " 

That  was  perfectly  simple.  It  would  simply 
be  handed  over  to  Minns  and  his  friend,  and 
they  would  attend  to  all  the  details. 

Bill  Napper  continued  to  smoke.  Then,  be- 
ginning with  a  slight  chuckle  at  the  back  of  his 
throat,  he  said :  "  Wen  I  got  my  money,  I  went 
to  a  lawyer's  for  it.  There  was  two  lawyers  — 
one  layin'  low.  There  was  two  fust-rate  law- 
yers an'  a  lot  o'  clurks  —  City  clurks  —  an'  a 


SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

bank  an'  all.  An*  they  could  n't  'ave  me,  not 
for  a  single  farden  —  not  a  farden,  try  an'  fiddle 
as  they  would.  .  .  .  Well,  arter  that,  it  ain't 
much  good  you  a-tryin'  it  on,  is  it?  "  And  he 
chuckled  again,  louder. 

Minns  was  indignant,  and  Minns's  friend 
was  deeply  hurt.  Both  protested.  Bill  Napper 
laughed  aloud.  "Awright,  you'll  do,"  he  said; 
"you  '11  do.  My  'abits  may  be  simple,  but  they 
ain't  as  simple  as  all  that.  Ha  —  ha!  'Ere, 
'ave  a  drink  —  you  ain't  done  no  'arm,  an'  I  ain't 
spiteful.  Ha  — ha!" 

It  was  on  an  evening  a  fortnight  after  this 
that,  as  Bill  Napper  lay,  very  full  of  beer  and 
rather  sleepy,  on  the  bed  —  the  rest  of  his 
household  being  out  of  doors  —  a  ladder  was 
quietly  planted  against  the  outer  wall  from  the 
back-yard.  Bill  heard  nothing  until  the  win- 
dow, already  a  little  open,  was  slowly  pushed 
up,  and  from  the  twilight  outside  a  head  and 
an  arm  plunged  into  the  thicker  darkness  of 
the  room,  and  a  hand  went  feeling  along  the 
edge  of  the  chest  of  drawers  by  the  window. 
Bill  rolled  over  on  the  bed,  and  reached  from 
the  floor  one  of  a  pair  of  heavy  iron-set  boots. 
Taking  the  toe  in  his  right  hand,  and  grasping 
the  footrail  of  the  bedstead  with  his  left,  he 
raised  himself  on  his  knees,  and  brought  the 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  191 

boot-heel  down  heavily  on  the  intruding  head. 
There  was  a  gasp,  and  the  first  breath  of  a  yell, 
and  head,  arm,  shoulders,  and  body  vanished 
with  a  bump  and  a  rattle.  Bill  Napper  let  the 
boot  fall,  dropped  back  on  the  bed,  and  took 
no  further  heed. 

Neither  Minns  nor  his  friend  ever  came  back 
again,  but  for  some  time  after,  at  Victoria 
Park,  Minns,  inciting  an  outraged  populace  to 
rise  and  sweep  police  and  army  from  the 
earth,  was  able  to  point  to  an  honorable  scar 
on  his  own  forehead,  the  proof  and  sign  of  a 
police  bludgeoning  at  Tower  Hill  —  or  Trafalgar 
Square. 


V. 


Things  went  placidly  on  for  near  ten  months. 
Many  barrels  of  beer  had  come  in  full  and  been 
sent  empty  away.  Also  the  missis  had  got  a 
gold  watch  and  divers  new  bonnets  and  gowns, 
some  by  gift  from  Bill,  some  by  applying  privily 
to  the  drawer.  Her  private  collection  of  bottles, 
too,  had  been  cleared  out  twice,  and  was  respect- 
able for  the  third  time.  Everybody  was  not 
friendly  with  her,  and  one  bonnet  had  been  torn 
off  her  head  by  a  neighbor  who  disliked  her 
airs. 


192  SQUIRE  NAPPER. 

So  it  stood  when,  on  a  certain  morning,  Bill 
being  minded  to  go  out,  found  but  two  shillings 
in  his  pocket.  He  called  upstairs  to  the  missis, 
as  was  his  custom  in  such  a  pass,  asking  her  to 
fetch  a  sovereign  or  two  when  she  came  down; 
and  as  she  was  long  in  coming,  he  went  up 
himself.  The  missis  left  the  room  hurriedly, 
and  Bill,  after  raking  out  every  corner  of  the 
drawer  (which  he  himself  had  not  opened  for 
some  time)  saw  not  a  single  coin.  The  missis 
had  no  better  explanation  than  that  there  must 
have  been  thieves  in  the  house  some  time  lately: 
a  suggestion  deprived  of  some  value  by  the  sub- 
sequent protest  that  Bill  couldn't  expect  money 
to  last  forever,  and  that  he  had  had  the  last  three 
days  ago.  In  the  end  there  was  a  vehement 
row,  and  the  missis  was  severely  thumped. 

The  thumping  over,  Bill  Napper  conceived 
a  great  idea.  Perhaps  after  all  the  lawyers  had 
done  him  by  understating  the  amount  his  brother 
had  left.  It  might  well  have  been  five  hundred 
pounds  —  a  thousand  pounds  —  anything.  Prob- 
ably it  was,  and  the  lawyers  had  had  the  differ- 
ence. Plainly,  three  hundred  pounds  was  a 
suspiciously  small  sum  to  inherit  from  a  well- 
to-do  brother.  He  would  go  to  the  lawyers  and 
demand  the  rest  of  his  money.  He  would  not 
reveal  his  purpose  till  he  saw  the  lawyers  face 
to  face,  and  then  he  would  make  his  demand 


SQUIRE  NAPPER.  193 

suddenly,  so  that  surprise  and  consternation 
should  overwhelm  and  betray  them.  He  would 
give  them  to  understand  that  he  had  complete 
evidence  of  the  whole  swindle.  In  any  case  he 
could  lose  nothing.  He  went,  after  carefully 
preparing  his  part,  and  was  turned  out  by  a 
policeman. 

"After  that,"  mused  Squire  Napper,  going 
home,  "I  suppose  I'd  better  see  about  getting 
a  job  at  Allen's  again.  He  can't  but  make 
me  gaffer,  considering  I  've  been  a  man  of 
property." 


"A   POOR    STICK." 


"A   POOR   STICK." 

MRS.  JENNINGS  (or  Jinnins,  as  the  neigh- 
bors would  have  it)  ruled  absolutely  at 
home,  when  she  took  so  much  trouble  as  to  do 
anything  at  all  there  —  which  was  less  often 
than  might  have  been.  As  for  Robert,  her  hus- 
band, he  was  a  poor  stick,  said  the  neighbors. 
And  yet  he  was  a  man  with  enough  of  hardi- 
hood to  remain  a  non-unionist  in  the  erector's 
shop  at  Maidment's  all  the  years  of  his  service; 
no  mean  test  of  a  man's  fortitude  and  resolu- 
tion, as  many  a  sufferer  for  independent  opinion 
might  testify.  The  truth  was  that  Bob  never 
grew  out  of  his  courtship-blindness.  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings governed  as  she  pleased,  stayed  out  or 
came  home  as  she  chose,  and  cooked  a  dinner 
or  did  n't,  as  her  inclination  stood.  Thus  it 
was  for  ten  years,  during  which  time  there  were 
no  children,  and  Bob  bore  all  things  uncom- 
plaining: cooking  his  own  dinner  when  he 
found  none  cooked,  and  sewing  on  his  own  but- 
tons. Then  of  a  sudden  came  children,  till 
in  three  years  there  were  three;  and  Bob  Jen- 


198 

nings  had  to  nurse  and  to  wash  them  as  often 
as  not. 

Mrs.  Jennings  at  this  time  was  what  is  called 
rather  a  fine  woman :  a  woman  of  large  scale 
and  full  development;  whose  slatternly  habit 
left  her  coarse  black  hair  to  tumble  in  snake- 
locks  about  her  face  and  shoulders  half  the 
day;  who,  clad  in  half -hooked  clothes,  bore  her- 
self notoriously  and  unabashed  in  her  fulness; 
and  of  whom  ill  things  were  said  regarding 
the  lodger.  The  gossips  had  their  excuse. 
The  lodger  was  an  irregular  young  cabinet- 
maker, who  lost  quarters  and  halves  and  whole 
days;  who  had  been  seen  abroad  with  his  land- 
lady, what  time  Bob  Jennings  was  putting  the 
children  to  bed  at  home;  who  on  his  frequent 
holidays  brought  in  much  beer,  which  he  and 
the  woman  shared,  while  Bob  was  at  work.  To 
carry  the  tale  to  Bob  would  have  been  a  thank- 
less errand,  for  he  would  have  none  of  any- 
body's sympathy,  even  in  regard  to  miseries 
plain  to  his  eye.  But  the  thing  got  about  in 
the  workshop,  and  there  his  days  were  made 
bitter. 

At  home  things  grew  worse.  To  return  at 
half-past  five,  and  find  the  children  still  un- 
dressed, screaming,  hungry,  and  dirty,  was  a 
matter  of  habit :  to  get  them  food,  to  wash  them, 
to  tend  the  cuts  and  bumps  sustained  through 


"A   POOR   STICK."  199 

the  day  of  neglect,  before  lighting  a  fire  and 
getting  tea  for  himself,  were  matters  of  daily 
duty.  "Ah,"  he  said  to  his  sister,  who  came 
at  intervals  to  say  plain  things  about  Mrs. 
Jennings,  "you  should  n't  go  for  to  set  a  man 
agin  'is  wife,  Jin.  Melier  do'n'  like  work,  I 
know,  but  that 's  nach'ral  to  'er.  She  ought  to 
married  a  swell  'stead  o'  me;  she  might  'a'  done 
easy  if  she  liked,  bein'  sich  a  fine  gal;  but  she's 
good-'arted,  is  Melier;  an'  she  can't  'elp  bein' 
a  bit  thoughtless."  Whereat  his  sister  called 
him  a  fool  (it  was  her  customary  good-by  at 
such  times),  and  took  herself  off. 

Bob  Jennings's  intelligence  was  sufficient  for 
his  common  needs,  but  it  was  never  a  vast  intel- 
ligence. Now,  under  a  daily  burden  of  dull 
misery,  it  clouded  and  stooped.  The  base  wit 
of  the  workshop  he  comprehended  less,  and 
realized  more  slowly,  than  before;  and  the 
gaffer  cursed  him  for  a  sleepy  dolt. 

Mrs.  Jennings  ceased  from  any  pretence  of 
housewifery,  and  would  sometimes  sit  —  per- 
chance not  quite  sober  —  while  Bob  washed  the 
children  in  the  evening,  opening  her  mouth 
only  to  express  her  contempt  for  him  and  his 
establishment,  and  to  make  him  understand  that 
she  was  sick  of  both.  Once,  exasperated  by  his 
quietness,  she  struck  at  him ;  and  for  a  moment 
he  was  another  man.  "Don't  do  that,  Melier," 


2OO  "A   POOR   STICK." 

he  said,  "else  I  might  forget  myself."  His 
manner  surprised  his  wife :  and  it  was  such  that 
she  never  did  do  that  again. 

So  was  Bob  Jennings :  without  a  friend  in  the 
world,  except  his  sister,  who  chid  him,  and  the 
children,  who  squalled  at  him :  when  his  wife 
vanished  with  the  lodger,  the  clock,  a  shade  of 
wax  flowers,  Bob's  best  boots  (which  fitted  the 
lodger),  and  his  silver  watch.  Bob  had  re- 
turned, as  usual,  to  the  dirt  and  the  children, 
and  it  was  only  when  he  struck  a  light  that  he 
found  the  clock  was  gone.  "  Mummy  tooked 
ve  t'ock,"  said  Milly,  the  eldest  child,  who  had 
followed  him  in  from  the  door,  and  now  gravely 
observed  his  movements.  "She  tooked  ve  t'ock 
an'  went  ta-ta.  An'  she  tooked  ve  fyowers. " 

Bob  lit  the  paraffin  lamp  with  the  green  glass 
reservoir,  and  carried  it  and  its  evil  smell  about 
the  house.  Some  things  had  been  turned  over 
and  others  had  gone,  plainly.  All  Melier's 
clothes  were  gone.  The  lodger  was  not  in,  and 
under  his  bedroom  window,  where  his  box  had 
stood,  there  was  naught  but  an  oblong  patch  of 
conspicuously  clean  wall-paper.  In  a  muddle 
of  doubt  and  perplexity,  Bob  found  himself  at 
the  front  door,  staring  up  and  down  the  street. 
Divers  women-neighbors  stood  at  their  doors, 
and  eyed  him  curiously;  for  Mrs.  Webster, 
moralist,  opposite,  had  not  watched  the  day's 


201 

proceedings  (nor  those  of  many  other  days)  for 
nothing,  nor  had  she  kept  her  story  to  herself. 

He  turned  back  into  the  house,  a  vague  notion 
of  what  had  befallen  percolating  feebly  through 
his  bewilderment.  "I  dunno  —  I  dunno,"  he 
faltered,  rubbing  his  ear.  His  mouth  was  dry, 
and  he  moved  his  lips  uneasily,  as  he  gazed 
with  aimless  looks  about  the  walls  and  ceiling. 
Presently  his  eyes  rested  on  the  child,  and 
"Milly,"  he  said  decisively,  "come  an'  'ave 
yer  face  washed." 

He  put  the  children  to  bed  early,  and  went 
out.  In  the  morning,  when  his  sister  came, 
because  she  had  heard  the  news  in  common 
with  everybody  else,  he  had  not  returned.  Bob 
Jennings  had  never  lost  more  than  two  quarters 
in  his  life,  but  he  was  not  seen  at  the  workshop 
all  this  day.  His  sister  stayed  in  the  house, 
and  in  the  evening,  at  his  regular  homing-time, 
he  appeared,  haggard  and  dusty,  and  began  his 
preparations  for  washing  the  children.  When  he 
was  made  to  understand  that  they  had  been 
already  attended  to,  he  looked  doubtful  and 
troubled  for  a  moment.  Presently  he  said :  "  I 
ain't  found  'er  yet,  Jin;  I  was  in  'opes  she 
might  'a*  bin  back  by  this.  I  —  I  don't  expect 
she'll  be  very  long.  She  was  alwis  a  bit  larky, 
was  Melier;  but  very  good-'arted. " 

His  sister  had  prepared  a  strenuous  lecture 


2O2  "A   POOR   STICK. 

on  the  theme  of  "  I  told  you  so  " ;  but  the  man 
was  so  broken,  so  meek,  and  so  plainly  unhinged 
in  his  faculties,  that  she  suppressed  it.  Instead 
she  gave  him  comfortable  talk,  and  made  him 
promise  in  the  end  to  sleep  that  night,  and  take 
up  his  customary  work  in  the  morning. 

He  did  these  things,  and  could  have  worked 
placidly  enough  had  he  been  alone;  but  the  tale 
had  reached  the  workshop,  and  there  was  no 
lack  of  brutish  chaff  to  disorder  him.  This  the 
decenter  men  would  have  no  part  in,  and  even 
protested  against.  But  the  ill-conditioned  kept 
their  way,  till,  at  the  cry. of  " Bell  O!"  when 
all  were  starting  for  dinner,  one  of  the  worst 
shouted  the  cruellest  gibe  of  all.  Bob  Jennings 
turned  on  him  and  knocked  him  over  a  scrap- 
heap. 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  hurrying  workmen, 
with  a  chorus  of  "  Serve  ye  right,"  and  the  fallen 
joker  found  himself  awkwardly  confronted  by 
the  shop  bruiser.  But  Bob  had  turned  to  a 
corner,  and  buried  his  eyes  in  the  bend  of  his 
arm,  while  his  shoulders  heaved  and  shook. 

He  slunk  away  home,  and  stayed  there :  walk- 
ing restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  often  peeping  down 
the  street  from  the  window.  When,  at  twilight, 
his  sister  came  again,  he  had  become  almost 
cheerful,  and  said  with  some  briskness,  "  I  'm  a- 
goin'  to  meet  'er,  Jin,  at  seven.  I  know  where 
she'll  be  waitinV 


"A  POOR   STICK."  203 

He  went  upstairs,  and  after  a  little  while 
came  down  again  in  his  best  black  coat,  care- 
fully smoothing  a  tall  hat  of  obsolete  shape 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "  I  ain't  wore  it 
for  years,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  'a'  wore  it  — 
it  might  'a'  pleased  'er.  She  used  to  say  she 
would  n't  walk  with  me  in  no  other  —  when  I 
used  to  meet  'er  in  theevenin',  at  seven  o'clock." 
He  brushed  assiduously,  and  put  the  hat  on. 
"  I  'd  better  'ave  a  shave  round  the  corner  as  I 
go  along,"  he  added,  fingering  his  stubbly  chin. 

He  received  as  one  not  comprehending  his 
sister's  persuasion  to  remain  at  home;  but  when 
he  went  she  followed  at  a  little  distance.  After 
his  penny  shave  he  made  for  the  main  road, 
where  company-keeping  couples  walked  up  and 
down  all  evening.  He  stopped  at  a  church, "and 
began  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  before  it,  eagerly 
looking  out  each  way  as  he  went. 

His  sister  watched  him  for  nearly  half  an 
hour,  and  then  went  home.  In  two  hours  more 
she  came  back  with  her  husband  Bob  was  still 
there,  walking  to  and  fro. 

"'Ullo,  Bob,"  said  his  brother-in-law;  "come 
along  'ome  an'  get  to  bed,  there  's  a  good  chap. 
You  '11  be  awright  in  the  mornin'. " 

"She  ain't  turned  up,"  Bob  complained,  "or 
else  I  Ve  missed  'er.  This  is  the  reg'lar  place 
—  where  I  alwis  used  to  meet  'er.  But  she  '11 


204 

come  to-morrer.  She  used  to  leave  me  in  the 
lurch  sometimes,  bein'  nach'rally  larky.  But 
very  good-'arted,  mindjer;  very  good-'arted." 

She  did  not  come  the  next  evening,  nor  the 
next,  nor  the  evening  after,  nor  the  one  after 
that.  But  Bob  Jennings,  howbeit  depressed 
and  anxious,  was  always  confident.  "  Some- 
think  's  prevented  'er  to-night,"  he  would  say, 
"but  she'll  come  to-morrer.  ...  I '11  buy  a 
blue  tie  to-morrer  —  she  used  to  like  me  in  a 
blue  tie.  I  won't  miss  'er  to-morrer.  I  '11  come 
a  little  earlier." 

So  it  went.  The  black  coat  grew  ragged  in 
the  service,  and  hobbledehoys,  finding  him  safe 
sport,  smashed  the  tall  hat  over  his  eyes  time 
after  time.  He  wept  over  the  hat,  and  straight- 
ened it  as  best  he  might.  Was  she  coming? 
Night  after  night,  and  night  and  night.  But 
to-morrow. 


A   CONVERSION. 


A   CONVERSION. 

r  I  ^HERE  are  some  poor  criminals  that  never 
-L  have  a  chance  :  circumstances  are  against 
them  from  the  first,  as  they  explain,  with  tears, 
to  sympathetic  mission-readers.  Circumstances 
had  always  been  against  Scuddy  Lond,  the  gun. 
The  word  gun,  it  may  be  explained,  is  a  friendly 
synonym  for  thief. 

His  first  name  was  properly  James,  but  that 
had  been  long  forgotten.  "  Scuddy "  meant 
nothing  in  particular,  was  derived  from  noth- 
ing, and  was  not,  apparently,  the  invention  of 
any  distinct  person.  Still,  it  was  commonly 
his  only  name,  and  most  of  his  acquaintances 
had  also  nicknames  of  similarly  vague  origin. 
Scuddy  was  a  man  of  fine  feelings,  capable  of  a 
most  creditable  hour  of  rapturous  misery  after 
hearing,  perhaps  at  a  sing-song,  "  Put  Me  in  my 
Little  Bed,"  or  any  other  ditty  that  was  rank 
enough  in  sentiment:  wherefore  the  mission- 
readers  never  really  despaired  of  him.  He  was 
a  small,  shabby  man  of  twenty-six,  but  looking 
younger;  with  a  runaway  chin,  a  sharp  yellow 


208  A   CONVERSION. 

face,  and  tremulously  sly  eyes;  with  but  faint 
traces  of  hair  on  his  face,  he  had  a  great  deal  of 
it,  straight  and  ragged  and  dirty,  on  his  head. 

Scuddy  Lond's  misfortunes  began  early. 
Temptation  had  prevailed  against  him  when  he 
was  at  school,  but  that  was  nothing.  He  be- 
came errand  boy  in  a  grocer's  shop,  and  com- 
plications with  the  till  brought  him,  a  howling 
penitent,  to  the  police  court.  Here,  while  his 
mother  hid  her  head  in  the  waiting-room,  he 
set  forth  the  villainy  of  older  boys  who  had 
prompted  him  to  sin,  and  got  away  with  no 
worse  than  a  lecture  on  the  evils  of  bad  com- 
pany. So  that  a  philanthropist  found  him  a 
better  situation  at  a  distance,  where  the  evil 
influence  could  no  longer  move  him.  Here  he 
stayed  a  good  while  —  longer  than  some  who 
had  been  there  before  him,  but  who  had  to  leave 
because  of  vanishing  postal  orders.  Neverthe- 
less, the  postal  orders  still  went,  and  in  the  end 
he  confessed  to  another  magistrate,  and  fervently 
promised  to  lead  a  better  life  if  his  false  start 
were  only  forgiven.  Betting,  he  protested,  was 
this  time  the  author  of  his  fall ;  and  as  that  per- 
nicious institution  was  clearly  to  blame  for  the 
unhappy  young  man's  ruin,  the  lamenting  magis- 
trate let  him  off  with  a  simple  month  in  con- 
sideration of  his  misfortune  and  the  intercession 
of  his  employer,  who  had  never  heard  of  the 
grocer  and  his  till. 


A   CONVERSION.  209 

After  his  month  Scuddy  went  regularly  into 
business  as  a  lob-crawler:  that  is  to  say,  he 
returned  to  his  first  love,  the  till :  not  narrowly 
to  any  individual  till,  but  broad-mindedly  to  the 
till  as  a  general  institution,  to  be  approached 
in  unattended  shops  by  stealthy  grovelling  on 
the  belly.  This  he  did  until  he  perceived  the 
greater  security  and  comfort  of  waiting  without 
while  a  small  boy  did  the  actual  work  within. 
From  this,  and  with  this,  he  ventured  on  peter- 
claiming:  laying  hands  nonchalantly  on  uncon- 
sidered  parcels  and  bags  at  railway  stations, 
until  a  day  when,  bearing  a  fat  portmanteau,  he 
ran  against  its  owner  by  the  door  of  a  refresh- 
ment bar.  This  time  the  responsibility  lay 
with  Drink.  Strong  Drink,  he  declared,  with 
deep  emotion,  had  been  his  ruin;  he  dated  his 
downfall  from  the  day  when  a  false  friend  per- 
suaded him  to  take  a  Social  Glass;  he  would 
still  have  been  an  honest,  upright,  self-respect- 
ing young  man  but  for  the  Cursed  Drink. 
From  that  moment  he  would  never  touch  it 
more.  The  case  was  met  with  three  months 
with  hard  labor,  and  for  all  that  Scuddy  Lond 
had  so  clearly  pointed  out  the  culpability  of 
Drink,  he  had  to  do  the  drag  himself.  But 
the  mission-readers  were  comforted :  for  clearly 
there  was  hope  for  one  whose  eyes  were  so  fully 
opened  to  the  causes  of  his  degradation. 

14 


2IO  A  CONVERSION. 

After  the  drag,  Scuddy  for  long  made  a  com- 
fortable living,  free  from  injurious  overwork,  in 
the  several  branches  of  lob-crawling  and  peter- 
claiming,with  an  occasional  deviation  into  parlor- 
jumping.  It  is  true  that  this  last  did  sometimes 
involve  unpleasant  exertion  when  the  window  was 
high  and  the  boy  heavy  to  bunk  up;  and  it  was 
necessary,  at  times,  to  run.  But  Scuddy  was  out 
of  work,  and  hunger  drove  him  to  anything,  so 
long  as  it  was  light  and  not  too  risky.  And  it 
is  marvellous  to  reflect  how  much  may  be  picked 
up  in  the  streets  and  at  the  side-doors  of  Lon- 
don and  the  suburbs  without  danger  or  vulgar 
violence.  And  so  Scuddy's  life  went  on,  with 
occasional  misfortunes  in  the  way  of  a  moon,  or 
another  drag,  or  perhaps  a  sixer.  And  the  mis- 
sion-readers never  despaired,  because  the  real 
cause  was  always  hunger,  or  thirst,  or  betting, 
or  a  sudden  temptation,  or  something  quite  ex- 
ceptional —  never  anything  like  real,  hardened, 
unblushing  wickedness;  and  the  man  himself 
was  always  truly  penitent.  He  made  such 
touching  references  to  his  innocent  childhood, 
and  was  so  grateful  for  good  advice  or  anything 
else  you  might  give  him. 

One  bold  attempt  Scuddy  made  to  realize  his 
desire  for  better  things.  He  resolved  to  depart 
from  his  evil  ways  and  to  become  a  nark  —  a 
copper's  nark  —  which  is  a  police  spy,  or  in- 


A  CONVERSION.  211 

former.  The  work  was  not  hard,  there  was  no 
imprisonment,  and  he  would  make  amends  for 
the  past.  But  hardly  had  he  begun  his  narking 
when  some  of  the  Kate  Street  mob  dropped  on 
him  in  Brick  Lane,  and  bashed  him  full  sore. 
This  would  never  do :  so  once  more  implacable 
circumstance  drove  him  to  his  old  courses. 
And  there  was  this  added  discomfort :  that  no 
boy  would  parlor-jump  nor  dip  the  lob  for  him. 
Indeed  they  bawled  aloud,  "  Yah,  Scuddy  Lond 
the  copper's  nark!"  So  that  the  hand  of  all 
Flower  and  Dean  Street  was  against  him. 
Scuddy  grew  very  sad. 

These  and  other  matters  were  heavy  upon  his 
heart  on  an  evening  when,  with  nothing  in  his 
pockets  but  the  piece  of  coal  that  he  carried 
for  luck,  he  turned  aimlessly  up  Baker's  Row. 
Things  were  very  bad :  it  was  as  though  the 
whole  world  knew  him  —  and  watched.  Shop- 
keepers stood  frowningly  at  their  doors.  People 
sat  defiantly  on  piles  of  luggage  at  the  railway 
stations,  and  there  was  never  a  peter  to  touch 
for.  All  the  areas  were  empty,  and  there  were 
no  side-doors  left  unguarded,  where,  failing  the 
more  desirable  wedge,  one  might  claim  a  pair 
or  two  of  daisies  put  out  for  cleaning.  All  the 
hundred  trifling  things  that  commonly  come 
freely  to  hand  in  a  mile  or  two  of  streets  were 
somehow  swept  out  of  the  world's  economy;  and 


212  A   CONVERSION. 

Scuddy  tramped  into  Baker's  Row  in  melting 
mood.  Why  were  things  so  hard  for  some  and 
so  easy  for  others?  It  was  not  as  though  he 
were  to  blame  —  he,  a  man  of  feeling  and  sen- 
timent. Why  were  others  living  comfortable 
lives  unvexed  of  any  dread  of  the  police?  And 
apart  from  that,  why  did  other  gonophs  get 
lucky  touches  for  half  a  century  of  quids  at  a 
time,  while  he !  .  .  .  But  there:  the  world  was 
one  brutal  oppression,  and  he  was  its  most  piti- 
able victim ;  and  he  slunk  along,  dank  with  the 
pathos  of  things. 

At  a  corner  a  group  was  standing  about  a 
woman,  whose  voice  was  uplifted  to  a  man's 
accompaniment  on  a  stand-accordion.  Scuddy 
listened.  She  sang,  with  a  harsh  tremble:  — 

"  An'  sang  a  song  of  'ome,  sweet  'ome, 

The  song  that  reached  my  'art. 
'Ome,  'ome,  sweet,  sweet  'ome, 
She  sang  the  song  of  'ome,  sweet  'ome, 
The  song  that  reached  my  'art." 

Here,  indeed,  was  something  in  tune  with 
Scuddy 's  fine  feelings.  He  looked  up.  From 
the  darkening  sky  the  evening  star  winked 
through  the  smoke  from  a  factory  chimney. 
From  anear  came  an  exquisite  scent  of  save- 
loys. Plaintive  influences  all.  He  tried  to 
think  of  'ome  himself  —  of  'ome  strictly  in  the 
abstract,  so  that  it  might  reach  his  'art.  He 


A   CONVERSION.  213 

stood  for  some  minutes  torpid  and  mindless, 
oozing  with  sentiment:  till  the  song  ended,  and 
he  went  on.  Fine  feelings  —  fine. 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  took  a  turning.  A 
lame  old  woman  sat  in  a  recess  selling  trotters, 
where  a  dark  passage  led  back  to  a  mission-hall. 
About  the  opening  a  man  hovered  —  fervent, 
watchful  —  and  darted  forth  on  passers-by.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  Scuddy's  shoulder,  and  said: 
"My  dear  friend,  will  you  come  in  an'  'ear  the 
word  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ?" 

Scuddy  turned :  the  sound  of  an  harmonium 
and  many  strenuous  voices  came  faintly  down 
the  passage.  It  was  his  mood.  Why  not  give 
his  fine  feelings  another  little  run?  He  would: 
he  would  go  in. 

"Trotters!"  quavered  the  lame  old  woman, 
looking  up  wistfully.  "Two  a  penny!  Two  a 
penny  !  "  But  no  :  he  went  up  the  passage,  and 
she  turned  patiently  to  her  board. 

Along  the  passage  the  singing  grew  louder, 
and  burst  on  his  ears  unchecked  as  he  pushed 
open  the  door  at  the  end :  — 

"  'Oosoever  will,  'oosoever  will, 
Send  the  proclamation  over  vale  an'  'ill ; 
'T  is  a  lovin'  Father  calls  the  wand'rer  'ome, 
'Oosoever  will  may  come  !  " 

A  man  by  the  door  knew  him  at  once  for  a 
stranger,  and  found  him  a  seat.  The  hymn 


214  A   CONVERSION. 

went  quavering  to  an  end,  and  the  preacher  in 
charge,  a  small,  bright-eyed  man  with  rebellious 
hair  and  a  surprisingly  deep  voice,  announced 
that  Brother  Spyers  would  offer  a  prayer. 

The  man  prayed  with  his  every  faculty.  He 
was  a  sturdy,  red-necked  artisan,  great  of  hand 
and  wiry  of  beard :  a  smith,  perhaps,  or  a  brick- 
layer. He  spread  his  arms  wide,  and,  his  head 
thrown  back,  brought  forth,  with  passion  and 
pain,  his  fervid,  disordered  sentences.  As  he 
went  on,  his  throat  swelled  and  convulsed  in 
desperate  knots,  and  the  sweat  hung  thick  on 
his  face.  He  called  for  grace,  that  every  un- 
saved soul  there  might  come  to  the  fold  and 
believe  that  night.  Or  if  not  all,  then  some  — 
even  a  few.  That  at  least  one,  only  one,  poor 
soul  might  be  plucked  as  a  brand  from  the  burn- 
ing. And  as  he  flung  together,  with  clumsy 
travail,  his  endless,  formless,  unconsidered  ve- 
hemences of  uttermost  Cockney,  the  man  stood 
transfigured,  admirable. 

From  here  and  there  came  deepamens.  Then 
more,  with  gasps,  groans,  and  sobs.  Scuddy 
Lond,  carried  away  luxuriously  on  a  tide  of 
grievous  sensation,  groaned  with  the  others. 
The  prayer  ended  in  a  chorus  of  ejaculations. 
Then  there  was  a  hymn.  Somebody  stuffed  an 
open  hymn-book  into  Scuddy's  hand,  but  he 
scarce  saw  it.  Abandoning  himself  to  the  mes- 


A   CONVERSION.  215 

meric  influence  of  the  many  who  were  singing 
about  him,  he  plunged  and  revelled  in  a  debauch 
of  emotion.  He  heard,  he  even  joined  in ;  but 
understood  nothing,  for  his  feelings  rilled  him 
to  overflowing. 

"  I  ?ave  a  robe :  't  is  resplendent  in  w'iteness, 

Awaitin'  in  glory  my  wonderin'  view  : 
Oh,  w'en  I  receive  it,  all  shinin'  in  brightness, 
Dear  friend,  could  I  see  you  receivin'  one  too  ! 
For  you  I  am  prayin' !    For  you  I  am  prayin'  ! 
For  you  I  am  prayin',  I  'm  prayin'  for  you." 

The  hymn  ceased;  all  sat  down,  and  the 
preacher  began  his  discourse:  quietly  at  first, 
and  then,  though  in  a  different  way,  with  all 
the  choking  fervor  of  the  man  who  had  prayed. 
For  the  preacher  was  fluent  as  well  as  zealous, 
and  his  words,  except  when  emotion  stayed 
them,  poured  in  a  torrent.  He  preached  faith 
—  salvation  in  faith  —  declaiming,  beseeching, 
commanding.  "  Come  —  come  !  Now  is  the 
appointed  time!  Only  believe  —  only  come! 
Only  —  only  come!"  To  impassioned,  broken 
entreaty  he  added  sudden  command  and  the  men- 
ace of  eternity,  but  broke  away  pitifully  again 
in  urgent  pleadings,  pantings,  gasps;  pointing 
above,  spreading  his  arms  abroad,  stretching 
them  forth  imploringly.  Come,  only  come! 

Sobs  broke  out  in  more  than  one  place.  A 
woman  bowed  her  head  and  rocked,  while  her 


2l6  A  CONVERSION. 

shoulders  shook  again.  Brother  Spyers's  face 
was  alight  with  joy.  A  tremor,  a  throe  of  the 
senses,  ran  through  the  assembly  as  through  a 
single  body. 

The  preacher,  nearing  his  peroration,  rose  to 
a  last  frenzy  of  adjuration.  Then,  ending  in  a 
steadier  key,  he  summoned  any  to  stand  forth 
who  had  found  grace  that  night. 

His  bright,  strenuous  eyes  were  on  the  sob- 
bers,  charging  them,  drawing  them.  First  rose 
the  woman  who  had  bowed  her  head.  Her  face 
uncovered  but  distorted  and  twitching,  still 
weeping  but  rapt  and  unashamed,  she  tottered 
out  between  the  seats,  and  sank  at  last  on  the 
vacant  form  in  front.  Next  a  child,  a  little 
maid  of  ten,  lank-legged  and  outgrown  of  her 
short  skirts,  her  eyes  squeezed  down  on  a  tight 
knot  of  pocket-handkerchief,  crying  wildly, 
broken-heartedly,  sobbed  and  blundered  over 
seat-corners  and  toes,  and  sat  down,  forlorn  and 
solitary,  at  the  other  end  of  the  form.  And 
after  her  came  Scuddy  Lond. 

Why,  he  knew  not  —  nor  cared.  In  the  full 
enjoyment  of  a  surfeit  of  indefinite  emotion, 
tearful,  rapturous,  he  had  accepted  the  com- 
mand put  on  him  by  the  preacher,  and  he  had 
come  forth,  walking  on  clouds,  regenerate,  com- 
pact of  fine  feelings.  There  was  a  short  prayer 
of  thanks,  and  then  a  final  hymn :  — 


A  CONVERSION.  2I/ 

"  Ring  the  bells  of  'eaven,  there  is  joy  to-day, 
For  a  soul  returnin'  from  the  wild  !  " 

Scuddy  felt  a  curious  equable  lightness  of 
spirits  — a  serene  cheerfulness.  His  emotional 
orgasm  was  spent,  and  in  its  place  was  a  numb 
calm,  pleasant  enough. 

"  Glory  !  glory  !  'ow  the  angels  sing  — 
Glory  !  glory  !  'ow  the  loud  'arps  ring  ! 
'T  is  the  ransomed  army,  like  a  mighty  sea, 
Pealin'  forth  the  anthem  of  the  free  !  " 

The  service  ended.  The  congregation  trooped 
forth  into  the  evening;  but  Scuddy  sat  where  he 
was,  for  the  preacher  wanted  a  few  words  with 
his  converts  ere  he  would  let  them  go.  He 
shook  hands  with  Scuddy  Lond,  and  spoke 
with  grave,  smiling  confidence  about  his  soul. 
Brother  Spyers  also  shook  hands  with  him  and 
bespoke  his  return  on  Sunday. 

In  the  cool  air  of  the  empty  passage,  Scuddy's 
ordinary  faculties  began  to  assert  themselves; 
still  in  an  atmosphere  of  calm  cheer.  Fine 
feelings  —  fine.  And  as  he  turned  the  piece  of 
coal  in  his  pocket,  he  reflected  that,  after  all, 
the  day  had  not  been  altogether  unlucky  —  not 
in  every  sense  a  blank.  Emerging  into  the 
street,  he  saw  that  the  lame  old  woman,  who 
was  almost  alone  in  view,  had  risen  on  her 
crutch  and  turned  her  back  to  roll  her  white 


218  A   CONVERSION. 

cloth  over  her  remaining  trotters.  On  the 
ledge  behind  stood  her  little  pile  of  coppers, 
just  reckoned.  Scuddy  Lond's  practised  eye 
took  the  case  in  a  flash.  With  two  long  tip- 
toed steps  he  reached  the  coppers,  lifted  them 
silently,  and  hurried  away  up  the  street.  He 
did  not  run,  for  the  woman  was  lame  and  had 
not  heard  him.  No:  decidedly  the  day  had  not 
been  blank.  For  here  was  a  hot  supper. 


ALL    THAT    MESSUAGE." 


"ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

I. 

"  A  LL  that  messuage  dwelling-house  and 
XX  premises  now  standing  on  part  of  the 
said  parcel  of  ground  "  was  the  phrase  in  the 
assignment  of  lease,  although  it  only  meant 
Number  Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street,  Old 
Ford,  containing  five  rooms  and  a  wash-house, 
and  sharing  a  dirty  front  wall  with  the  rest  of 
the  street  on  the  same  side.  The  phrase  was  a 
very  fine  one,  and,  with  others  more  intricate, 
lent  not  a  little  to  the  triumph  and  the  per- 
plexity the  transaction  filled  old  Jack  Randall 
withal.  The  business  was  a  conjunction  of  pur- 
chase and  mortgage,  whereby  old  Jack  Randall, 
having  thirty  pounds  of  his  own,  had,  after  half- 
an-hour  of  helpless  stupefaction  in  a  solicitor's 
office  in  Cornhill,  bought  a  house  for  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty  pounds,  and  paid  ten  pounds 
for  stamps  and  lawyer's  fees.  The  remaining 
two  hundred  pounds  had  been  furnished  by  the 
Indubitable  Perpetual  Building  Society,  on  the 


222  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

security  of  a  mortgage;  and  the  loan,  with  its 
interest,  was  to  be  repaid  in  monthly  instal- 
ments of  two  pounds  and  fourpence  during 
twelve  years.  Thus  old  Jack  Randall  designed 
to  provide  for  the  wants  and  infirmities  of  age; 
and  the  outright  purchase,  he  argued,  was  a 
thing  of  mighty  easy  accomplishment.  For  the 
house  let  at  nine  shillings  a  week,  which  was 
twenty-three  pounds  eight  shillings  a  year;  and 
the  mortgage  instalments,  with  the  ground  rent 
of  three  pounds  a  year,  only  came  to  twenty- 
seven  pounds  four,  leaving  a  difference  of  three 
pounds  sixteen,  which  would  be  more  than 
covered  by  a  saving  of  eighteenpence  a  week : 
certainly  not  a  difficult  saving  for  a  man  with  a 
regular  job  and  no  young  family,  who  had  put 
by  thirty  pounds  in  little  more  than  three  years. 
Thus  on  many  evenings  old  Jack  Randall  and 
his  wife  would  figure  out  the  thing,  wholly  for- 
getting rates  and  taxes  and  repairs. 

Old  Jack  stood  on  the  pavement  of  Cornhill, 
and  stared  at  the  traffic.  When  he  remembered 
that  Mrs.  Randall  was  by  his  side,  he  said, 
"Well,  mother,  we  done  it;"  and  his  wife  re- 
plied, "  Yus,  fa',  you  're  a  Ian' lord  now. "  Hereat 
he  chuckled  and  began  to  walk  eastward.  For 
to  be  a  landlord  is  the  ultimate  dignity.  There 
is  no  trouble,  no  anxiety  in  the  world  if  you  are 
a  landlord;  and  there  is  no  work.  You  just 


"  ALL   THAT   MESSUAGE."  223 

walk  round  on  Monday  mornings  (or  maybe 
you  even  drive  in  a  trap),  and  you  collect  your 
rents:  eight  and  six,  or  nine  shillings,  or  ten 
shillings,  as  the  case  may  be.  And  there  you 
are !  It  is  better  than  shopkeeping,  because 
the  money  comes  by  itself;  and  it  is  infinitely 
more  genteel.  Also,  it  is  better  than  having 
money  in  a  bank  and  drawing  interest;  because 
the  house  cannot  run  away  as  is  the  manner  of 
directors,  nor  dissolve  into  nothingness  as  is  the 
way  of  banks.  And  here  was  he,  Jack  Randall, 
walking  down  Leadenhall  Street  a  landlord.  He 
mounted  a  tram-car  at  Aldgate,  and  all  things 
were  real. 


II. 


Old  Jack  had  always  been  old  Jack  since  at 
fourteen  young  Jack  had  come  'prentice  in  the 
same  engine-turner's  shop.  Young  Jack  was 
a  married  man  himself  now,  at  another  shop; 
and  old  Jack  was  near  fifty,  and  had  set  himself 
toward  thrift.  All  along  Whitechapel  Road, 
Mile  End  Road,  and  Bow  Road  he  considered 
the  shops  and  houses  from  the  tram-roof,  madly 
estimating  rents  and  values.  Near  Bow  Road 
end  he  and  his  wife  alighted,  and  went  inspect- 
ing Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street  once  more. 


224 

Old  Jack  remarked  that  the  scraper  was  of  a 
different  shape  from  that  he  had  carried  in  his 
mind  since  their  last  examination;  and  he  men- 
tioned it  to  Mrs.  Randall,  who  considered  the 
scraper  of  fact  rather  better  than  the  scraper  of 
memory.  They  walked  to  and  fro  several  times, 
judging  the  door  and  three  windows  from  each 
side  of  the  street,  and  in  the  end  they  knocked, 
with  a  purpose  of  reporting  the  completed  pur- 
chase. But  the  tenant's  wife,  peeping  from 
behind  a  blind,  and  seeing  only  the  people  who 
had  already  come  spying  about  the  house  some 
two  or  three  times,  retired  to  the  back  and  went 
on  with  her  weekly  washing. 

They  waited  a  little,  repeated  the  knock,  and 
then  went  away.  The  whole  day  was  "off,"  and 
a  stroll  in  the  Tower  Hamlets  Cemetery  was 
decided  on.  Victoria  Park  was  as  near,  but  was 
not  in  the  direction  of  home.  Moreover,  there 
was  less  interest  for  Mrs.  Randall  in  Victoria 
Park,  because  there  were  no  funerals.  In  the 
cemetery,  Mrs.  Randall  solaced  herself  and  old 
Jack  with  the  more  sentimental  among  the  in- 
scriptions. In  the  poor  part,  whose  miscella- 
neous graves  are  marked  by  mounds  alone,  they 
stopped  to  look  at  a  very  cheap  funeral. 

"  Lor',  Jack,"  Mrs.  Randall  said  under  her 
breath  with  a  nudge,  "wot  a  common  caufin! 
Why,  the  body  's  very  nigh  a-droppin'  through 


"ALL   THAT   MESSUAGE."  22$ 

the  bottom !  "      The  thin    under-board   had,    in 
fact,  a  bulge.     "Pore  chap!  ain't  it  shockin' !" 

The  ignominy  of  a  funeral  with  no  feathers 
was  a  thing  accepted  of  course,  but  the  horror 
of  a  cheap  coffin  they  had  never  realized  till  now. 
They  turned  away.  In  the  main  path  they  met 
the  turgid  funeral  of  a  Bow  Road  bookmaker. 
After  the  dozen  mourning  coaches  there  were 
cars  and  pony  traps,  and  behind  these  came  a 
fag-end  of  carts  and  donkey-barrows.  Ahead 
of  all  was  the  glazed  hearse,  with  attendants  in 
weepers,  and  by  it,  full  of  the  pride  of  artistry, 
walked  the  undertaker  himself. 

"Now  that,"  said  old  Jack,  "is  somethin'  like 
a  caufin."  (It  was  heavy  and  polished  and  beset 
with  bright  fittings.)  "Ah,"  sighed  his  missis, 
"ain't  it  lovely!" 

The  hearse  drew  up  at  the  chapel  door,  where 
the  undertaker  turned  to  the  right-about  arid 
placidly  surveyed  the  movements  of  his  forces. 
Mrs.  Randall  murmured  again:  "Lovely  — 
lovely !  "  and  kept  her  eyes  on  the  coffin.  Then 
she  edged  gently  up  to  the  undertaker,  and 
whispered,  "What  would  that  kind  o'  caufin  be 
called,  mister?  " 

The  undertaker  looked  at  her  from  the  sides 
of  his  eyes,  and  answered  briskly,  "Two-inch 
polished  oak  solid  extry  brass  fittin's. "  Mrs. 
Randall  returned  to  old  Jack's  side  and  repeated 

'5 


226 

the  words.  "That  must  cost  a  lot,"  she  said. 
"  What  a  thing,  though,  to  be  certain  you  won't 
be  buried  in  a  trumpery  box  like  that  other! 
Ah,  it's  well  to  be  rich." 

Old  Jack  gazed  on  the  coffin,  and  thought. 
Surely  a  landlord,  if  anybody,  was  entitled  to 
indulge  in  an  expensive  coffin?  All  day  he 
had  nursed  a  fancy  that  some  small  indulgence, 
something  a  little  heavier  than  usual  in  the 
matter  of  expense,  would  be  proper  to  celebrate 
the  occasion.  But  he  reflected  that  his  savings 
were  gone  and  his  pockets  no  fuller  than  had 
always  been  their  Wednesday  wont :  though,  of 
course,  in  that  matter  the  future  would  be 
different.  The  bearers  carried  the  coffin  into 
the  chapel,  and  Mrs.  Randall  turned  away 
among  the  graves.  Old  Jack  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and,  looking  at  the  ground,  said: 
"That  was  a  nobby  catifin,  mother,  wasn't  it?" 
Whereunto  Mrs.  Randall  murmured:  "Lovely 
—  lovely  !  "  yet  again. 

Old  Jack  walked  a  little  further,  and  asked, 
"Two-inch  polished  oak,  'e  said,  did  n't  'e?  " 

"Solid,  an'  extry  brass  fittin's;  beautiful!" 

"I'll  remember  it.  That 's  what  you  shall 
'ave  if  it  'appens  you  go  fust.  There  !  "  And 
old  Jack  sat  on  the  guard-chain  of  a  flowery 
grave  with  the  air  of  one  giving  a  handsome 
order. 


"ALL   THAT   MESSUAGE."  22/ 

"Me?     Git  out !     Look  at  the  expense. " 

"  Matter  o'  circumstances.  Look  at  Jenkins's 
Gardens.  Jenkins  was  a  bench-'and  at  the 
Limited;  got  'is  'ouses  one  under  another 
through  building  s'ieties.  That  there  caufin 
'ud  be  none  too  dear  for  yim.  We  're  beginnin' ; 
an'  I  promise  you  that  same,  if  you  'd  like  it." 

"Like  it!"  the  missis  ejaculated.  "Course 
I  should.  Would  n't  you?  " 

"Wy,  yus.  Any  one  'ud  prefer  somethin'  a 
bit  nobby;  an'  thick." 

And  the  missis  reciprocated  old  Jack's  prom- 
ise, in  case  he  died  first :  if  a  two-inch  pol- 
ished oak  solid  could  be  got  for  everything 
she  had  to  offer.  And,  tea-time  approaching, 
they  made  well  pleased  for  home. 


III. 


In  two  days  old  Jack  was  known  as  a  landlord 
all  about.  On  the  third  day,  which  was  Satur- 
day, young  Jack  called  to  borrow  half  a  sover- 
eign, but  succeeded  only  to  the  extent  of  five 
shillings:  work  was  slack  with  him,  and  three 
days  of  it  was  all  he  had  had  that  week.  This 
had  happened  before,  and  he  had  got  on  as  best 
he  could ;  but  now,  with  a  father  buying  house- 


228  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

property,  it  was  absurd  to  economize  for  lack  of 
half  a  sovereign.  When  he  brought  the  five 
shillings  home,  his  wife  asked  why  he  had  not 
thrown  them  at  his  father's  head:  a  course  of 
procedure  which,  young  Jack  confessed,  had 
never  occurred  to  his  mind.  "  Stingy  old 
'unks!"  she  scolded.  "A-goin'  about  buyin' 
'ouses,  an'  won't  lend  'is  own  son  ten  shillin's! 
Much  good  may  all  'is  money  do  'im  with  'is 
'ateful  mean  ways!"  This  was  the  beginning 
of  old  Jack's  estrangement  from  his  relatives. 
For  young  Jack's  missis  expressed  her  opinion 
in  other  places,  and  young  Jack  was  soon  ready 
to  share  it :  rigidly  abstaining  from  another  at- 
tempt at  a  loan,  though  he  never  repaid  the  five 
shillings. 

In  the  course  of  the  succeeding  week  two  of 
his  shopmates  took  old  Jack  aside  at  different 
times  to  explain  that  the  loan  of  a  pound  or 
two  would  make  the  greatest  imaginable  dif- 
ference to  the  whole  course  of  their  future 
lives,  while  the  temporary  absence  of  the 
money  would  be  imperceptible  to  a  capitalist 
like  himself.  When  he  roundly  declared  that 
he  had  as  few  loose  sovereigns  as  themselves, 
he  was  set  down  as  an  uncommon  liar  as  well  as  a 
wretched  old  miser.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
old  Jack's  unpopularity  in  the  workshop. 


"ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE."  229 


IV. 


He  took  a  half-day  off  to  receive  the  first 
week's  rent  in  state,  and  Mrs.  Randall  went 
with  him.  He  showed  his  written  authority 
from  the  last  landlord,  and  the  tenant's  wife 
paid  over  the  sum  of  nine  shillings,  giving  him 
at  the  same  time  the  rent-book  to  sign  and  a 
slip  of  written  paper.  This  last  was  a  week's 
notice  to  terminate  the  tenancy. 

"  We  're  very  well  satisfied  with  the  'ouse, "  the 
tenant's  wife  said  (she  was  a  painfully  clean, 
angular  woman,  with  a  notable  flavor  of  yellow 
soap  and  scrubbing-brush  about  her),  "but  my 
'usband  finds  it  too  far  to  get  to  an'  from  Albert 
Docks  mornin'  and  night.  So  we  're  goin'  to 
West 'Am. "  And  she  politely  ejected  her  vis- 
itors by  opening  the  door  and  crowding  them 
through  it. 

The  want  of  a  tenant  was  a  contingency  that 
old  Jack  had  never  contemplated.  As  long  as 
it  lasted  it  would  necessitate  the  setting  by  of 
ten  and  sixpence  a  week  for  the  building  society 
payments  and  the  ground-rent.  This  was  seri- 
ous :  it  meant  knocking  off  some  of  the  butcher's 
meat,  all  the  beer  and  tobacco,  and  perhaps  a 
little  firing.  Old  Jack  resolved  to  waste  no 
more  half-days  in  collecting,  but  to  send  his 


230  "ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE." 

missis.  On  the  following  Monday,  therefore, 
while  the  tenant's  wife  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  the 
man  who  was  piling  a  greengrocer's  van  with 
chairs  and  tables,  Mrs.  Randall  fixed  a  "  To 
Let  "  bill  in  the  front  window.  In  the  leaves 
of  the  rent-book  she  found  another  thing  of 
chagrin:  to  wit,  a  notice  demanding  payment  of 
poor,  highway,  and  general  rates  to  the  amount 
of  one  pound  eighteen  and  sevenpence.  Now, 
no  thought  of  rates  and  taxes  had  ever  vexed 
the  soul  of  old  Jack.  Of  course,  he  might  have 
known  that  his  own  landlord  paid  the  rates 
for  his  house;  but,  indeed,  he  had  never  once 
thought  of  the  thing,  being  content  with  faith- 
fully paying  the  rent,  and  troubling  no  more 
about  it.  That  night  was  one  of  dismal  wake- 
fulness  for  old  Jack  and  his  missis.  If  he  had 
understood  the  transaction  at  the  lawyer's  office, 
he  would  have  known  that  a  large  proportion  of 
the  sum  due  had  been  allowed  him  in  the  final 
adjustment  of  payment  to  the  day;  and  if  he 
had  known  something  of  the  ways  of  rate-col- 
lecting, he  would  have  understood  that  payment 
was  not  expected  for  at  least  a  month.  As  it 
was,  the  glories  of  lease-possession  grew  dim  in 
his  eyes,  and  a  landlord  seemed  a  poor  creature, 
spending  his  substance  to  keep  roofs  over  the 
heads  of  strangers. 


"ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE."  23  I 


V. 


On  Wednesday  afternoon  a  man  called  about 
taking  the  house,  and  returned  in  the  evening, 
when  old  Jack  was  home.  He  was  a  large- 
featured,  quick-eyed  man,  with  a  loud,  harsh 
voice  and  a  self-assertive  manner.  Quickly  old 
Jack  recognized  him  as  a  speaker  he  had  heard 
at  certain  street-corners :  a  man  who  was  sec- 
retary, or  delegate,  or  that  sort  of  thing,  to 
something  that  old  Jack  had  forgotten. 

He  began  with  the  announcement,  "  I  am  Joe 
Parsons,"  delivered  with  a  stare  for  emphasis, 
and  followed  by  a  pause  to  permit  assimilation. 

Old  Jack  had  some  recollection  of  the  name, 
but  it  was  indefinite.  He  wondered  whether 
or  not  he  should  address  the  man  as  "sir,"  con- 
sidering the  street  speeches,  and  the  evident 
importance  of  the  name.  But  then,  after  all, 
he  was  a  landlord  himself.  So  he  only  said, 
"Yus?" 

"I  am  Joe  Parsons,"  the  man  repeated;  "and 
I  'm  looking  for  a  'ouse. " 

There  was  another  pause,  which  lasted  till 
old  Jack  felt  obliged  to  say  something.  So  he 
said,  "Yus?  "  again. 

"I  'm  looking  for  a  'ouse,"  the  man  repeated, 
"and,  if  we  can  arrange  things  satisfactory,  I 
might  take  yours." 


232  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  was  far  above  haggling  about 
the  rent,  but  he  had  certain  ideas  as  to  painting 
and  repairs  that  looked  expensive.  In  the  end 
old  Jack  promised  the  paint  a  touch-up,  privily 
resolving  to  do  the  work  himself  in  his  even- 
ings. And  on  the  whole,  Mr.  Joe  Parsons  was 
wonderfully  easy  to  come  to  terms  with,  con- 
sidering his  eminent  public  character.  And 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  reference  in  his  case 
would  have  been  absurd.  As  himself  observed, 
his  name  was  enough  for  that. 


VI. 


Old  Jack  did  the  painting,  and  the  new  tenant 
took  possession.  When  Mrs.  Randall  called  for 
the  first  week  a  draggle-tailed  little  woman  with 
a  black  eye  meekly  informed  her  that  Mr.  Par- 
sons was  not  at  home,  and  had  left  no  money 
nor  any  message  as  to  the  rent.  This  was  awk- 
ward, because  the  first  building  society  instal- 
ment would  be  due  before  next  rent-day  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  rates.  But  it  would  never 
do  to  offend  Mr.  Parsons.  So  the  money  was 
scraped  together  by  heroic  means  (the  missis 
produced  an  unsuspected  twelve  and  sixpence 
from  a  gallipot  on  the  kitchen  dresser),  and 
the  first  instalment  was  paid. 


"ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE."  233 

Mrs.  Randall  called  twice  at  Mulberry  Street 
next  rent-day,  but  nobody  answered  her  knocks. 
Old  Jack,  possessed  by  a  misty  notion,  born  of 
use,  that  rent  was  constitutionally  demandable 
only  on  Monday  morning,  called  no  more  for  a 
week.  But  on  Thursday  evening  a  stout  little 
stranger,  with  a  bald  head  which  he  wiped  con- 
tinually, came  to  the  Randalls  to  ask  if  the 
tenant  of  Twenty-seven  Mulberry  Street  was  Mr. 
Joe  Parsons.  Assured  that  it  was,  he  nodded, 
said,  "Thanks!  that's  all,"  wiped  his  head 
again,  and  started  to  go.  Then  he  paused,  and 
"Pay  his  rent  regular?"  he  asked.  Old  Jack 
hesitated.  "Ah,  thought  so,"  said  the  little 
stranger.  "He's  a  wrong  'un.  I've  got  a  bit 
o'  paper  for'im. "  And  he  clapped  on  his  hat 
with  the  handkerchief  in  it  and  vanished. 


VII. 

Old  Jack  felt  unhappy,  for  a  landlord.  He 
and  the  missis  reproached  themselves  for  not 
asking  the  little  stranger  certain  questions;  but 
he  had  gone.  Next  Monday  morning  old  Jack 
took  another  half-day,  and  went  to  Mulberry 
Street  himself.  From  appearances,  he  assured 
himself  that  a  belief,  entertained  by  his  missis, 


234  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

that  the  upper  part  of  his  house  was  being 
sublet,  was  well  founded.  He  watched  awhile 
from  a  corner,  until  a  dirty  child  kicked  at  the 
door,  and  it  was  opened.  Then  he  went  across 
and  found  the  draggle-tailed  woman  who  had 
answered  Mrs.  Randall  before,  in  every  respect 
the  same  to  look  at,  except  that  not  one  eye  was 
black  but  two.  Old  Jack,  with  some  abrupt- 
ness, demanded  his  rent  of  her,  addressing  her 
as  Mrs.  Parsons.  Without  disclaiming  the 
name,  she  pleaded  with  meek  uneasiness  that 
Mr.  Parsons  really  was  n't  at  home,  and  she 
did  n't  know  when  to  expect  him.  At  last, 
finding  this  ineffectual,  she  produced  four  and 
sixpence:  begging  him  with  increasing  agita- 
tion to  take  that  on  account  and  call  again. 

Old  Jack  took  the  money,  and  called  again  at 
seven.  Custom  or  law  or  what-not,  he  would 
wait  for  no  Monday  morning  now.  The  door 
was  open,  and  a  group  of  listening  children 
stood  about  it.  From  within  came  a  noise  of 
knocks  and  thuds  and  curses  —  sometimes  a 
gurgle.  Old  Jack  asked  a  small  boy,  whose 
position  in  the  passage  betokened  residence, 
what  was  going  forward.  "  It 's  the  man  down- 
stairs," said  the  boy,  "a-givin'  of  it  to  'is  wife 
for  payin'  awy  the  lodgers'  rent. " 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Joe  Parsons  appeared  in 
the  passage.  The  children,  who  had  once  or 


"ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE."  235 

twice  commented  in  shouts,  dispersed.  "  I  've 
come  for  my  rent,"  said  old  Jack. 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  saw  no  retreat.  So  he  said, 
"  Rent  ?  Ain't  you  'ad  it  ?  I  don't  bother  about 
things  in  the  'ouse.  Come  again  when  my 
wife  's  in." 

"She  is  in,"  rejoined  old  Jack,  "an*  you've 
been  a-landin'  of  'er  for  payin'  me  what  little 
she  'as.  Come,  you  pay  me  what  you  owe  me, 
and  take  a  week's  notice  now.  I  want  my  house 
kep'  respectable." 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  had  no  other  shift.  "You 
be  damned,"  he  said.  "Git  out." 

"  What  ?  "  gasped  old  Jack  —  for  to  tell  a  land- 
lord to  get  out  of  his  own  house  !  .  .  .  "What?" 

"  Why  git  out?  Y'  ought  to  know  better  than 
comin'  'ere  askin'  for  money  you  ain't  earnt. " 

"  Ain't  earnt  ?     What  d'  ye  mean  ?  " 

"What  I  say.  Y' ain't  earnt  it.  It's  you 
blasted  lan'lords  as  sucks  the  blood  o'  the 
workers.  You  go  an'  work  for  your  money." 

Old  Jack  was  confounded.  "Why  —  what  — 
how  d'  ye  think  I  can  pay  the  rates,  an'  every- 
think?  " 

"I  don't  care.  You'll  Jave  to  pay  'em,  an'  I 
wish  they  was  'igher.  They  ought  to  be  the 
same  as  the  rent,  an'  that  'ud  do  away  with 
fellers  like  you.  Go  on :  you  do  your  damdest 
an'  get  your  rent  best  way  you  can." 


236  "ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE." 

"But  what  about  upstairs?  You're  lettin'  it 
out  an'  takin'  the  rent  there.  I  —  " 

"That 's  none  o'  your  business.  Git  out,  will 
ye  ?  "  They  had  gradually  worked  over  the  door- 
step, and  Randall  was  on  the  pavement.  "  I 
sha'n't  pay,  an'  I  sha'n't  go,  an'  ye  can  do  what 
ye  like;  so  it's  no  good  your  stoppin'  —  unless 
you  want  to  fight.  Eh  —  do  ye?"  And  Mr. 
Parsons  put  a  foot  over  the  threshold. 

Old  Jack  had  not  fought  for  many  years.  It 
was  low.  For  a  landlord  outside  his  own  house 
it  was,  indeed,  disgraceful.  But  it  was  quite 
dark  now,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  soul  in  the 
street.  Perhaps  nobody  would  know,  and  this 
man  deserved  something  for  himself.  He  looked 
up  the  street  again,  and  then,  "Well,  I  ain't  so 
young  as  I  was,"  he  said,  "but  I  won't  disap- 
point ye.  Come  on." 

Mr.  Joe  Parsons  stepped  within  and  slammed 
the  door. 


VIII. 

Old  Jack  went  home .  less  happy  than  ever. 
He  had  no  notion  what  to  do.  Difficulties  of 
private  life  were  often  discussed  and  argued  out 
in  the  workshop,  but  there  he  had  become  too 
unpopular  to  ask  for  anything  in  the  nature  of 


"ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE."  237 

sympathy  or  advice.  Not  only  would  he  lend 
no  money,  but  he  refused  to  stand  treat  on  rent 
days.  Also,  there  was  a  collection  on  behalf 
of  men  on  strike  at  another  factory,  to  which 
he  gave  nothing;  and  he  had  expressed  the 
strongest  disapproval  of  an  extension  of  that 
strike,  and  his  own  intention  to  continue  work- 
ing if  it  happened.  For  what  would  become 
of  all  his  plans  and  his  savings  if  his  wages 
ceased  ?  Wherefore  there  was  no  other  man  in 
the  shop  so  unpopular  as  old  Jack,  and  in  a 
workshop  unpopularity  is  a  bad  thing. 

He  called  on  a  professional  rent-receiver  and 
seller-up.  This  man  knew  Mr.  Joe  Parsons  very 
well.  He  never  had  furniture  upon  which  a 
profitable  distress  might  be  levied.  But  if  he 
took  lodgers,  and  they  were  quiet  people,  some- 
thing might  be  got  out  of  them  —  if  the  job 
were  made  worth  while.  But  this  was  not  at 
all  what  old  Jack  wanted. 

Soon  after  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask  advice  of 
the  secretary  of  the  building  society.  This  was 
a  superficial  young  man,  an  auctioneer's  clerk 
until  evening,  who  had  no  disposition  to  trouble 
himself  about  matters  outside  his  duties.  Still, 
he  went  so  far  as  to  assure  old  Jack  that  turning 
out  a  tenant  who  meant  to  stay  was  not  a  simple 
job.  If  you  did  n't  mind  losing  the  rent  it 
might  be  done  by  watching  until  the  house  was 


238  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

left  ungarrisoned,  getting  in,  putting  the  fur- 
niture into  the  street,  and  keeping  the  tenant 
out.  With  this  forlorn  hope  old  Jack  began 
to  spend  his  leisure  about  Mulberry  Street : 
ineffectually,  for  Mrs.  Parsons  never  came  out 
while  he  was  there.  Once  he  saw  the  man, 
and  offered  to  forgive  him  the  rent  if  he  would 
leave:  a  proposal  which  Mr.  Parsons  received 
with  ostentatious  merriment.  At  this  old  Jack's 
patience  gave  out,  and  he  punched  his  tenant  on 
the  ear.  Whereat  the  latter,  suddenly  whiten- 
ing in  the  face,  said  something  about  the  police, 
and  walked  away  at  a  good  pace. 


IX. 


The  strike  extended,  as  it  was  expected  and 
designed  to  do.  The  men  at  old  Jack's  factory 
were  ordered  out,  and  came,  excepting  only  old 
Jack  himself.  He  was  desperate.  Since  he  had 
ventured  on  that  cursed  investment  everything 
had  gone  wrong :  but  he  would  not  lose  his  sav- 
ings if  mere  personal  risk  would  preserve  them. 
Moreover,  a  man  of  fifty  is  not  readily  re-em- 
ployed, once  out;  and  as  the  firm  was  quite 
ready  to  keep  one  hand  on  to  oil  and  see  that 
things  were  in  order,  old  Jack  stayed:  making 
his  comings  and  goings  late  to  dodge  the  pickets, 


"ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE."  239 

and  approaching  subtly  by  a  railway-arch  stable 
and  a  lane  thereunto.  It  was  not  as  yet  a  very 
great  strike,  and  with  care  these  things  could  be 
done.  Still,  he  was  sighted  and  chased  twice, 
and  he  knew  that,  if  the  strike  lasted,  and  feel- 
ing grew  hotter,  he  would  be  attacked  in  his 
own  house.  If  only  he  could  hold  on  through 
the  strike,  and  by  hook  or  crook  keep  the  out- 
goings paid,  he  would  attend  to  Mr.  Parsons 
afterward. 

X. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  as  Mrs.  Randall 
was  buying  greens  and  potatoes,  old  Jack,  wait- 
ing without,  strolled  toward  a  crowd  standing 
about  a  speaker.  A  near  approach  discovered 
the  speaker  to  be  Mr.  Joe  Parsons,  who  was 
saying : — 

strike  pay  is  little  enough  at  the  time, 

of  course,  but  don't  forget  what  it  will  lead  to ! 
An'  strike  pay  does  v.ery  well,  my  frien's,  when 
the  party  knows  'ow  to  lay  it  out,  an'  don't  go 
passin'  it  on  to  the  lan'lord.  Don't  give  it  away. 
When  the  lan'lord  comes  o'  Monday  mornin', 
tell  'im  (polite  as  you  like)  that  there's  nothink 
for  'im  till  there  's  more  for  you.  Let  the  lan'- 
lord earn  'is  money,  like  me  an'  you.  Let  the 
lan'lords  pay  a  bit  towards  this  'ere  strike  as 


240  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

well  as  the  other  blaggards,  the  imployers. 
Lan'lords  gits  quite  enough  out  o'  you,  my  feller 
workers,  when  - 

"They  don't  git  much  out  o'  you!"  shouted 
old  Jack  in  his  wrath;  and  then  felt  sorry  he 
had  spoken.  For  everybody  looked  at  him,  and 
he  knew  some  of  the  faces. 

"  Ho ! "  rejoined  the  speaker,  mincingly. 
"There's  a  gent  there  as  seems  to  want  to  ad- 
dress this  'ere  meetin'.  P'r'aps  you  '11  'ave  the 
kindness  to  step  up  'ere,  my  friend,  an'  say  wot 
you  got  to  say  plain. "  And  he  looked  full  at 
old  Jack,  pointing  with  his  finger. 

Old  Jack  fidgeted,  wishing  himself  out  of  it. 
"You  pay  me  what  you  owe  me,"  he  growled 
sulkily. 

"As  this  'ere  individual,  after  intruding  'isself 
on  this  peaceful  meetin',  ain't  got  anythink  to 
say  for 'isself,"  pursued  Mr.  Joe  Parsons,  "  I '11 
explain  things  for  'im.  That 's  my  lan'lord,  that 
is :  look  at  'im !  'E  comes  'angin'  round  my 
door  waitin'  for  a  chance  to  turn  my  pore  wife 
an'  children  out  o'  'ouse  and  'ome.  'E  follers 
me  in  the  street  an'  tries  to  intimidate  me.  'E 
comes  'ere,  my  feller  workers,  as  a  spy,  an'  to 
try  an'  poison  your  minds  agin  me  as  devotes 
my  'ole  life  to  your  int'rests.  That 's  the  sort 
o'  man,  that's  the  sort  o' lan'lord  'e  is.  But  'e 's 
somethink  more  than  a  greedy,  thievin',  overfed 


"ALL  THAT  MESSUAGE."  241 

lan'lord,  my  frien's,  an'  I  '11  tell  you  wot.  'E's 
a  dirty,  crawlin'  blackleg;  that 's  wot  else  'e  is. 
'E  's  the  on'y  man  as  would  n't  come  out  o'  Maid- 
ment's;  an' 'e 's  workin'  there  now,  skulkin'  in 
an'  out  in  the  dark  —  a  dirty  rat!  Now  you  all 
know  very  well  I  won't  'ave  nothink  to  do  with 
any  violence  or  intimidation.  It 's  agin  my 
principles,  although  I  know  there  's  very  often 
great  temptation,  an'  it 's  impossible  to  identify 
in  a  crowd,  an'  safe  to  be  very  little  evidence. 
But  this  I  will  say,  that  when  a  dirty  low  rat, 
not  content  with  fattenin'  on  starvin'  tenants, 
goes  an'  takes  the  bread  out  o'  'is  feller  men's 
mouths,  like  that  bleedin'  blackleg  —  blackleg! 
-  blackleg  !  —  " 

Old  Jack  was  down.  A  dozen  heavy  boots 
.were  at  work  about  his  head  and  belly.  In 
from  the  edge  of  the  crowd  a  woman  tore  her 
way,  shedding  potatoes  as  she  ran,  and  scream- 
ing; threw  herself  upon  the  man  on  the  ground; 
and  shared  the  kicks.  Over  the  shoul'ders  of  the 
kickers  whirled  the  buckle-end  of  a  belt.  "One 
for  the  old  cow,"  said  a  voice. 


XI. 


When   a  man  is  lying  helpless  on  his  back, 
with   nothing   in   hand,    he   pays   nothing  off   a 

16 


242  "ALL  THAT   MESSUAGE." 

building  society  mortgage,  because,  as  his  wife 
pawns  the  goods  of  the  house,  the  resulting 
money  goes  for  necessaries.  To  such  a  man 
the  society  shows  no  useless  grace:  especially 
when  the  secretary  has  a  friend  always  ready  to 
take  over  a  forfeited  house  at  forced  sale  price. 
So  the  lease  of  Twenty-seven  vanished,  and  old 
Jack's  savings  with  it. 

And  one  day,  some  months  later,  old  Jack, 
supported  by  the  missis  and  a  stick,  took  his 
way  across  the  workhouse  forecourt.  There  was 
a  door  some  twenty  yards  from  that  directly 
before  them,  and  two  men  came  out  of  it,  carry- 
ing a  laden  coffin  of  plain  deal. 

"Look  there,  Jack,"  the  missis  said,  as  she 
checked  her  step;  "what  a  common  caufin!" 
And  indeed  there  was  a  distinct  bulge  in  the 
bottom. 


THE   END. 


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